ANTHOLOGY 
OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

FOR  1915 


BY 


WILLIAM  STANLEY  BRAITHWAITE 


ANTHOLOGY 

OF 

MAGAZINE  VERSE 

FOR  1915 

AND  YEAR  BOOK  OF 
AMERICAN  POETRY 

EDITED  BY 
WILLIAM  STANLEY  BRAITHWAITE 


NEW  YORK 

GOMME  &P  MARSHALL 
1915 


Copyright,  1915,  by 
GOMME  AND  MARSHALL 


VAIL-BALLOU     COMPANY 
•INOMAMTON  AND  NEW  YOU* 


TO 

JOSEPH  LEBOWICH 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

INTRODUCTION- xi 

ANTHOLOGY  OP  POEMS xxix 

YEAR  BOOK: 

INDEX   OF   POETS   AND  POEMS  PUBLISHED  IN   AMERI 
CAN    MAGAZINES  DURING  1915 187 

THE  BEST  POETRY  OF  1915 223 

LIST    OF    IMPORTANT    PUBLICATIONS    DEALING    WITH 
POETS   AND   POETRY 256 

THE    MAGAZINE    SUMMARY 266 

ARTICLES  AND  REVIEWS  OF  POETS  AND  POETRY  PUB 
LISHED  DURING  1915 267 

VOLUMES  OF  POEMS  PUBLISHED  DURING  1915     .     .     .  285 

INDEX    BY    NAMES    OF    POEMS    CONTAINED    IN    THE 
ANTHOLOGY        293 


TABLE  OF  POEMS 

PAGE 

INVOCATION Wendell  Phillips  Stafford  1 

CRADLE  Soxo Josephine    Preston    Pea- 
body     1 

THE   HAUNTING  FACE   .     .     Robert  Underwood  John 
son       4 

THE     BACCHANTE    TO    HEE 

BABE Eunice    Tietjens    ...  5 

THE    MUSICMAKER'S    CHILD    Miriam  Allen  de  Ford  .  8 

To  IMAGINATION  ....     Dorothea  Laurence  Mann  9 

HERITAGE Theresa  Virginia  Beard  .  11 

A   SPRING   SYMPHONY    .     .     Amelia  Josephine  Burr  .  14 
PETER      QUINCE      AT     THE 

CLAVIER Wallace    Stevens    ...  15 

JOY Sara  Teasdale  ....  17 

BALLAD    OF    AMARYLLIS    IN 

THE  SHADE Richard   Le    Gallienne    .  18 

SUNSET    BALCONIES    .      .      .     Thomas  Walsh  ....  19 

LA   GITANA John    Curtis    Underwood  20 

PATTERNS Amy    Lowell     ....  23 

ULYSSES  IN  ITHACA  .     .     .     Amelia  Josephine  Burr  .  25 

SONG      .......     Ruth  Guthrie  Harding   .  26 

THE  NEW  PLATONIST  CIRCA 

1640 Cuthbert   Wright   ...  27 

A  CYPRIAN  WOMAN:  GREEK 

FOLK  SONG Margaret  Widdemer  .     .  29 

FROM  A  CAR-WINDOW    .     .     Ruth  Guthrie  Harding   .  39 
WE  WHO  HAVE  LOVED  .     .     Corinne  Roosevelt  Robin 
son       30 

vii 


PAGE 

CAVE    TALK     .....  Joteph  Warren  Beach     .  30 

THE  CHINESE  NIGHTINGALE  Vachel    Lindsay     ...  33 

SPRING .  Clement  Wood  ....  40 

NEEDLE  TRAVEL    ....  Margaret   French   Patton  41 

THE  FAIRY  FORT  ....  Abbie  Farwell  Brown     .  42 

SONG Edward  J.   O'Brien   .     .  43 

FOR  THE   DEDICATION  OF  A 

TOY  THEATRE    ....  Benjamin  R.  C.  Low       .  44 

THE  COTTRTYAHD  PIGEONS    .  Caroline  Giltinan  ...  45 

THE  BARBERRY  BUSH    .     .  Grace  Hazard  Conkling  .  45 

GREEN  SYMPHONY     .     .     .  John  Gould  Fletcher       .  48 

SERENADE William    Griffith    .     .     .  52 

SEA   IRIS H.  D 53 

BIRCHES Robert   Frost    ....  54 

HILLS Arthur    O  niter  man      .      .  56 

THE   CLOUD Sara  Teasdale  ....  57 

THE  MIRAGE Nathan  Haskell  Dole     .  57 

FIRE  CASTLES Arvia    Mac  Kay  e    ...  57 

VISTAS Odell   Shepard       ...  58 

SUN-BROWNED    WITH     TOIL  Edward      F.      Garesche, 

S.   J 59 

JULY Mahlon  Leonard  Fisher  .  60 

THE  ROAD  Nor  TAKEN  .     .  Robert   Frost    ....  61 
HYMN  TO  THE  DAIRYMAIDS 

ON    BEACON    STREET    .     .  Christopher  Norley     .     .  62 
PASSAGES  FROM  A  POEM:  THE 

NEW  WORLD  ....  Witter  Bynner  ...  63 
THE  MAKER  OF  IMAGES  .  .  Brian  Hooker  ....  69 
THE  HOME  OF  HORACE  .  .  George  Meason  Whicher  72 
SISTER  MARY  VERONICA  .  .  Nancy  Byrd  Turner  .  .  74 
THE  ADVENTURER  .  .  .  Odell  Shepard  .  .  .  .75 
FLAMMONDE Edwin  Arlington  Robin- 
ton  76 

GAYHEAHT,  A  STORY  OF  DE 
FEAT    Dana  Burnet    ....  79 

viii 


To     A      GENTLEMAN      RE 
FORMER    

OLD  KINO  COLE  .... 
LINCOLN,  1865-1915  .  .  . 

To  EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS  .  . 
WASHINGTON  MCNEELY 
THE  VINEGAR  MAN  . 
HANNAH  ARMSTRONG  .  . 
BEYOND  THE  WAR  .  .  . 
A  VISION  OF  SPRING  (LATE 
WINTER,  1915)  .  .  . 
THE  LAUGHTERS  .... 
GOD  AND  THE  STRONG  ONES 
ON  THE  PORCH  .... 
MEN  HAVE  WINGS  AT  LAST 

SURE,  IT'S  FUN!  .... 
HARVEST  MOON:  1914  .  . 

THE  WIND  IN  THE  CORN   . 

BATTLE  SLEEP 

THE  BOMBARDMENT  .     . 
THE  PYRES:  A  WAR  POEM 
SING,    YE    TRENCHES!    .     . 

1915       .     

THE  WHITE  SHIPS  AND  THE 

RED 

THE  RETURN  OF  AUGUST  . 
PRAYER  FOR  PEACE  .  .  . 
SONNETS  WRITTEN  IN  THE 

FALL  OF  1914   .... 

THE   FRUIT   SHOP      .     .     . 


PAGE 

Louis   Untermeyer      .     .     92 

Edwin   Arlington  Robin- 
eon       93 

Wendell     Phillips     Staf 
ford     65 

Richard  Butler  Olaenzer  96 
Edgar  Lee  Masters  .  .  98 
Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell  .  99 
Edgar  Lee  Masters  .  .  100 
Olive  Tilford  Dargan  .  101 

Ridgely  Torrence  .  .  .  106 
Louis  Untermeyer  .  .  109 
Margaret  Widdemer  .  .111 
Harriet  Monroe  .  .  .  113 
Josephine  Preston  Pea- 
body  115 

Richard   Butler   Olaenzer  118 
Josephine     Preston    Pea- 
body     119 

E.  Button 121 

Edith  Wharton  ...  123 
Amy  Lowell  .  .  .  .124 
Hermann  Hagedorn  .  .  127 
Helen  Coale  Crew  .  .  129 
James  Oppenheim  .  .  130 

Joyce  Kilmer  ....  134 
Percy  MacKaye  .  .  .137 
William  Samuel  Johnson  140 

George    Edward     Wood- 
berry    142 

Amy  Lowell     ....  145 


PAGE 

THE    PARADOX       ....  Don   Mar  quit    .     .     .     .150 

OVER  NIGHT,  A  ROSE   .     .  Caroline  Giltinan  .     .     .151 

HARVEST Dana   Burnet    ....   153 

THE  NIGHT  COURT   .     .     .  Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell  .  153 

PAX   BEATA Mary  Rachel  Norris   .      .  156 

THE  SERVICE Surges  Johnson     .     .     .  157 

TESTAMENT Sara    Teasdale        .     .     .  157 

A  STATUE  IN  A  GARDEN    .     Agnes  Lee 158 

FATE Richard   Burton     .     .      .   159 

THE  ANSWER Sara  Teasdale   ....  159 

THE  WHITE   WITCH      .     .  James  W,  Johnson     .     .160 

THE  VANISHED  COUNTRY   .  Grantland  Rice      .     .     .  162 
THE  DEATH  OF  THE  HIRED 

MAN Robert   Frost    ....  163 

SWIMMERS Louis   Untermeyer      .     .   169 

IF  ONE  SHOULD  COME   .     .  Mahlon  Leonard  Fisher  •  171 

VOYAGE  A  L'INFINI  .     .     .  Walter  Conrad  Arentberg  172 

THE  LAST  PIPER  ....  Edward  J.  O'Brien    .     .173 

TIME Florence  Earle  Coates    .  174 

SILENCE Edgar  Lee  Masters    .     .  175 

MADISON  CAWEIN  ....  Margaret  Steele  Anderson  177 

THE  BIRD  AND  THE  TREE   .  Ridgely    Torrence       .     .178 

INTERLUDE        William  Griffith     .     .     .180 

SPRING  SONG William  Griffith      ...   180 

CASSANDRA Edwin  Arlington   Robin- 
ton       181 

SAINTE  JEANNE  OF  FRANCE 

— 1915 Marion  Couthouy  Smith  .  182 

To  MY  COUNTRY  ....  Charles  'Hanson  Towne  .  183 


INTRODUCTION 

THE  ETERNAL  FRAGILITY  OF  POETRY  — AN 
ANALOGUE 

The  very  name  of  April  has  a  quiet  mystery 
when  spoken:  as  if  at  the  sound  of  those  soft  and 
liquid  letters  some  haunting  memory  begins  to  glow 
with  indefinable  ecstasies.  The  name  leads  one  to 
sense  a  curious  kind  of  secrecy,  wherein  some  stir 
ring  and  changing  miracles  are  happening.  It 
lures  one  into  harmony  with  something  intangibly 
but  delightfully  and  poignantly  strange.  No 
month  is  named  so  appropriately.  A-P-R-I-L,  is 
sound  and  color  of  the  spirit  and  substance  of 
earth.  There  is  a  pagan  sensitiveness  to  grace 
and  beauty  in  the  naming.  There  is  a  vigorous 
moral  courtesy  in  the  reliance  upon  a  name  that  is 
physically  so  frail.  Yet  it  is  the  one  month  of  all 
the  year  to  which  we  apply  the  word  Eternal.  It 
is  a  Breath,  a  Vision,  a  Realization  of  Immortality. 
In  its  constant  fleetingness  of  moods,  it  symbolizes 
Permanence.  It  is  a  spiritual  flame,  burning  with 
prophecies  and  declarations.  And  its  one  message 
is  Life ! 

That  is  why  the  spirit  of  Poetry  is  so  akin  to  the 
spirit  of  April.  The  April  mood  sanctifies  the 
poet's  dreams.  He  has  come,  through  them,  to 
realize  the  eternal  grace  that  beats  in  the  pulse  of 
life.  April  typifies,  not  so  much  Resurrection,  as 
Recurrence.  The  great  Rhythm  with  its  discords 
is  also  a  Rhythm  with  its  increasing  harmonies, 
and  it  is  this  Divine  Accent  which  April  strikes, 
that  opens  the  vistas  of  an  infinite  and  eternal  con 
viction  of  life. 

xi 


This  touch  of  mystery  that  comes  creeping  out 
of  the  shadow  into  the  sunlight,  transfiguring  all 
with  a  motionless  alchemy  of  breath,  and  color, 
and  odor,  evokes  from  poetry  a  similar  touch  of 
mystery  that  comes  out  of  the  shadows  of  human 
sorrow  and  pain  into  the  joyousness  of  aspiration, 
a  transfiguring  power  of  Faith,  Hope,  and  Love, 
quickening  the  nature  of  man. 

That  cry  which  Browning  uttered  is  known  all 
over  the  world  — "  Oh,  to  be  in  England,  now  that 
April's  there."  There  is  something  abiding  in  the 
knowledge  that  April  makes  England  different 
from  other  times.  Here  is  something  that  lies 
close  to  the  meaning  of  poetry.  And  when  Bliss 
Carman  sings, 

"  April  over  the  Norland  now 

Bugles  for  rapture,  rouses  pain — " 

he  calls,  too,  out  of  those  deeps  that  lie  just  below 
the  drifting  silver  haze,  veiling  meadow  and  hill, 
for  a  reading  of  the  mystery  that  is  full  of  the 
implications  rooted  in  the  human  heart.  Even 
though  the  larger  part  of  mankind  feels  as  Shakes 
peare  voices  it,  in  the  Ninety-eighth  Sonnet  — 

"When  proud  pide  Aprill  (drest  in  all  his  trim) 
Hath  put  a  spirit  of  youth  in  everything:" 

the  "  spirit  of  youth  "  in  a  deeper  sense  becomes 
for  the  visioning  soul  of  poetry  a  reaffirmation  of 
our  beliefs  and  ideals,  which  lead  us  through  mys 
terious  and  difficult  paths  to  the  cherished  perfect 
ing  of  mortal  conduct.  Before  the  riotous,  blos 
soming  of  May,  the  serene  intensity  of  April  dawns 


xn 


and  twilights  prepare  the  sacraments,  and  Poetry 
with  her  habiliment  of  dreams  and  visions,  carries 
the  blessed  bread  and  wine  of  life  for  the  com 
munion  of  supplicant  humanity. 

FKEEDOM  OF  POETRY  AS  AN  ART 

Poetry  has  a  way  of  being  itself  despite  the  ef 
forts  from  time  to  time  to  make  it  something  else. 
A  new  condition  comes  about  in  the  social  order 
of  things ;  there  is  either  more  or  less  satisfaction 
with  life  in  the  common  masses  of  mankind; 
there  is  either  more  or  less  consideration  of  their 
rights  and  desires  by  authority  and  might,  repre 
sented  by  government  and  wealth.  But  the  essen 
tial  meaning  of  life  goes  on  from  change  to  change 
in  the  social  and  economic  world,  with  the  single 
effect  perhaps,  of  intensifying  the  common  and  un 
changeable  experiences  of  human  nature.  No  mat 
ter  how  the  world  changes,  or  the  condition  of  man 
alters  in  keeping  pace  with  it,  poetry  will  be  seen, 
if  one  looks  at  its  history  as  a  whole  and  not  in 
fragments,  to  antedate  the  spirit  of  change  in  the 
life  of  humanity. 

The  progress  of  poetry  has  always  been  its 
prophecy ;  the  progress  of  science  has  always  been 
its  discoveries.  While  science  is  astonishing  a 
generation  with  its  discoveries,  poetry  is  already 
into  the  next  unborn  generation  planting  the  seeds 
of  its  prophecies  for  science  to  harvest.  We  are 
coming  upon  an  era  of  new  poetry,  so  we  are  told. 
In  my  hasty  satisfaction  over  the  appreciation  of 
poetry  by  a  greater  number  of  people  to-day  than 
was  true  ten  or  fifteen  years  ago,  I  also  have  been 


Xlll 


guilty  of  calling  this  extended  interest  the  admira 
tion  for  a  new  art.  Poetry  never  was  old,  it  could 
never  be  new.  It  could  never  be  set  free,  because  it 
was  never  in  bondage.  It  is  believed  to  be  free  be 
cause  it  expresses  the  feeling  and  moods,  the 
aspiration  and  condition,  of  the  "  people  " ;  it  is 
supposed  to  be  new  because  it  attempts  to  reform 
its  appearance  by  repudiating  tradition.  A  hun^ 
dred  years  ago  —  indeed,  we  might  go  back  five 
hundred  or  a  thousand,  for  examples  —  Shelley 
with  one  purpose  in  view,  and  Crabbe  with  another, 
voiced  the  "  people,"  the  democracy  of  the  masses 
—  politically  and  socially,  morally  and  indus 
trially;  and  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  reformed 
the  abstract  appearance  of  poetry  by  revolting 
against  tradition. 

The  essence  of  poetry  is  in  the  mental  and  emo 
tional  image,  and  the  vitality  of  the  image  to 
weather  the  usage  of  familiarity  by  reading  gen 
erations,  is  in  the  personalized  spiritual  force  of 
the  poet.  These  are  what  bring  fire,  heat,  radi 
ancy,  and  color  into  the  smoldering  fuel  of  the 
art;  life  constantly  offers  new  fuel,  after  periods 
of  material  exhaustion  in  the  affairs  of  men,  and 
poetry  has  always  been  ready  as  a  continuous  ele 
ment  in  human  nature  to  inflame  it  into  prophetic 
messages  of  the  future. 

Crabbe,  Wordsworth,  Shelley,  and  Coleridge  did 
not  create  a  new  poetry;  they  created  a  new 
meaning,  a  new  interpretation  of  truth.  What 
was  wholly  and  untraditionally  new  about  their 
poetry  was  the  magic  by  which  their  evocations  of 
beauty  gave  substance  to  the  abstract  forms  of 

xiv 


truth  in  the  vaporous  regions  of  their  souls.  And 
you  will  find  that  only  these  two  elements  count, 
and  that  the  subject  does  not  matter,  nor  the  mere 
condition  or  aspect  of  existence,  through  which  life 
may  be  represented  in  substance  and  reproduced  in 
texture.  To  repeat,  the  life  of  the  "  people  "  or 
the  life  of  the  aristocracy,  the  life  that  is  vulgar 
and  oppressed,  that  is  criminal  or  ignorant,  as  well 
as  the  life  that  idealizes  virtue  and  morality,  that 
is  cultivated  and  noble,  life  that  is  past  in  antiquity 
and  history,  as  well  as  the  life  we  experience  in  our 
rapidly  changing  modern  world,  have  all  an  equal 
chance  to  be  made  vivid  and  real,  vital  and  actually 
manifest  by  the  eternal  embodiments  of  Truth  and 
Beauty. 

With  the  new  interest  in  poetry  there  is  a  grow 
ing  controversial  feeling,  chiefly  among  the  poets 
themselves  and  their  critics,  about  the  kinds  of 
poetry.  It  is  forgotten  that  kinds  of  poetry  can 
only  mean  one  thing,  that  is,  the  particular  forms 
in  which  poets  are  best  able  to  succeed  in  revealing 
moods  and  conveying  ideas.  It  has  everything  to 
do  with  expression  and  nothing  whatever  with  sub 
stance.  If,  therefore,  a  poet  is  attracted  to  the 
idealisms  of  Greek  and  Roman  myths,  and  uses  the 
symbols  of  their  characters,  with  their  passions 
and  language,  instead  of  a  direct  utterance  of  the 
language  of  modern  democracy,  he  may  be  given 
every  credit  for  poetical  perfection :  he  will  be  said, 
by  the  passionate  lovers  of  modernity,  to  have 
truth  and  beauty  in  his  work  —  but  no  pulse  of 
life.  It  must  be  understood  that  the  pulse  of  life 
beats  in  poetry  not  from  the  theme  but  through 


the  abstract  realities  of  the  poet's  soul,  breathing 
into  the  theme  the  inexplicable  sentiency  of  being. 

THE    AMERICAN    SUBSTANCE 

There  is  a  peculiar  weakness  in  most  American 
writers  when  they  speak  of  our  poets.  Often  these 
writers  are  poets  themselves.  They  seem  to  lack 
both  independence  and  judgment.  They  belittle 
their  own  efforts  by  their  injustices  to  their  con 
temporaries.  They  contradict  their  own  opinions, 
and  confuse  a  public  that  is  really  trying  to  come 
to  an  understanding  and  appreciation  of  the  best 
work  our  poets  are  doing.  Miss  Zoe  Akins,  writ 
ing  a  series  of  articles  this  year  under  the  title  of 
"  The  Shadow  of  Parnassus :  A  Critical  Anthology 
of  Contemporary  American  Verse,"  makes  the 
statement  that  we  have  no  great  or  first-class  poet 
in  America  to-day.  Yet  in  commenting  upon  the 
work  of  Witter  Bynner  and  Amy  Lowell  she  char 
acterizes  the  former's  poem  "  The  Cardinal's  Gar 
den,  Villa  Albani,"  as  being  as  great  as  anything 
Browning  achieved  in  any  of  his  dramatic  mono 
logues,  and  Miss  Lowell's  poem  "  The  Castle " 
she  calls  the  "  most  notable  piece  of  narrative 
verse  by  any  living  poet."  Certainly,  she  would 
not  deny  that  Browning  is  a  great  poet;  and 
if  Mr.  Bynner,  according  to  her  opinion  has  done 
something  equal  to  what  only  greatness  can 
achieve,  he  must  be  a  great  poet  too.  But,  of 
course,  being  an  American  the  term  has  not  the 
same  meaning,  as  no  American  poet  can  be  great. 
A  different  case,  but  a  common  one,  and  with  less 
excuse,  is  the  letter  Mr.  Conrad  Aiken  published 

xvi 


in  the  New  York  Times  Review  of  Books,  earlier  in 
the  year,  in  which  he  charged  me  with  "  persist 
ently,  and  sometimes  extravagantly  "  overpraising 
the  works  of  American  poets.  He  at  the  same  time 
commented  on  the  achievements  of  the  younger 
English  poets,  comparing  the  American  poets  to 
them,  much  to  the  latter's  disadvantage.  Now  Mr. 
Aiken,  as  well  as  Miss  Akins,  are  American  poets, 
and  it  is  an  unseemly  manner  they  pursue  going 
about  seeking  their  own  self-effacement.  In  spite 
of  this  attitude,  we  have  poets  of  the  first  rank, 
and  perhaps,  for  the  first  time,  poets  (not  a  poet) 
whose  Americanism  has  helped  them  to  their  high 
positions. 

The  two  great  successes  of  the  year  up  to  the 
writing  of  these  paragraphs  have  been  the  Ameri 
can  poets  Frost  and  Masters.  Both  are  typically 
American,  though  one  has  an  Eastern  and  the 
other  a  Western  background.  And  I  venture  to 
predict  that  two  other  American  poets  with  an  in 
digenous  American  note  will  have  impressed  the 
public  tremendously  before  another  year.  These 
poets  are  Lincoln  Colcord  and  John  G.  Neihardt. 
Mr.  Colcord  has  written  in  my  opinion,  in  his 
"  Vision  of  War,"  and  looked  at  from  more  points 
of  view  than  one,  the  most  important  book  of  the 
year  whether  in  prose  or  verse.  Mr.  Neihardt 
achieves  in  his  remarkable  narrative  "  The  Song 
of  Hugh  Glass,"  an  American  theme  which  shows 
the  possibilities  of  adventurous  pioneer  days  in  the 
West  as  a  subject  for  poetry,  if  the  poet  has  the 
power  of  form  and  imagination  in  the  highest  de 
gree.  This  is  a  significant  note  in  the  development 


of  the  year's  poetry,  that  America  is  yielding  itself 
in  unsuspected  ways  to  the  vision  and  imagination 
of  her  poets.  The  variety  of  the  year's  volumes 
cannot  help  but  convince  the  observer  that  Amer 
ican  poetry  is  marching  steadily  forward.  The 
exquisite  singing  quality  of  Sara  Teasdale  in 
"  Rivers  to  the  Sea,"  the  democratic  idealism  of 
Witter  Bynner  in  "  The  New  World,"  the  emo 
tional  imagery  of  John  Gould  Fletcher  in  "  Irradi 
ations,"  the  intellectual  beauty  of  Benjamin  R.  C. 
Low's  "  The  House  that  Was,"  the  imaginative 
culture  and  spirit  of  Thomas  Walsh  in  "  The  Pil 
grim  Kings,"  the  spiritual  transfiguration  of  com 
mon  experiences  by  Dana  Burnet  in  "  Poems,"  and 
the  delightful,  spontaneous  humor  of  Arthur 
Guiterman  in  "  The  Laughing  Muse,"  are  a  few 
examples  from  many  of  the  year's  best  accomplish 
ment. 

The  selections  in  this  Anthology  also  testify  to 
the  continued  progress  of  the  art  in  the  magazines. 
Here  are  the  older  and  established  names  repre 
sented  by  some  of  the  best  work  they  have  done  in 
recent  years :  poets  like  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson, 
Amelia  Josephine  Burr,  Josephine  Preston  Pea- 
body,  Amy  Lowell,  Vachel  Lindsay,  Brian  Hooker, 
Louis  Untenneyer,  Olive  Tilford  Dargan,  Robert 
Underwood  Johnson,  Florence  Earle  Coates,  Wen 
dell  Phillips  Stafford,  Corinne  Roosevelt  Robinson, 
Witter  Bynner,  Ridgely  Torrence  and  George  Ed 
ward  Woodberry.  While  the  new  discoveries  of 
beautiful  poems,  such  as  the  rare  and  perfect  "  Pe 
ter  Quince  at  the  Clavier,"  by  Wallace  Stevens,  the 
tender  and  appealing  "  Heritage,"  by  Theresa  V. 

xviii 


Beard,  the  haunting  lines  of  "  The  Adventurer  " 
by  Odell  Shepard,  the  quiet  spiritual  glow  of  "  The 
Courtyard  Pigeons,"  by  Caroline  Giltinan,  the  firm 
meditative  mood  of  "  Pax  Beata,"  by  Mary  Rachel 
Norris,  the  elegiac  beauty  of  "  To  Persephone  Re 
turning,"  by  Edith  Willis  Linn,  the  exquisite 
melody  of  "  Song,"  by  Ruth  Guthrie  Harding,  the 
delicate  and  attractive  fancies  of  "  Needle  Travel," 
by  Margaret  French  Patton,  and  the  incomparable 
artifice  of  "The  New  Platonist "  by  Cuthbert 
Wright,  present  to  us  new  names  that  have  added 
gloriously  to  our  choir.  The  year  has  returned 
with  fervor  to  lyrical  expression.  There  were  con 
siderably  fewer  long  poems  than  last  year,  and 
amongst  those  that  I  have  included,  the  splendid 
modern  story  of  "  Gayheart :  A  Story  of  Defeat," 
by  Dana  Burnet,  is  unquestionably  one  of  the  best. 
I  want  to  reaffirm  my  statement  of  two  years  ago 
concerning  the  sonnets  of  Mahlon  Leonard  Fisher ; 
he  is  one  of  the  very  best  sonnet-writers  in  the 
entire  history  of  American  poetry,  and  the  two 
here  included,  "  July  "  and  "  If  One  Should  Come," 
are  as  good  as  any  he  has  written.  We  are  still 
looking  forward  to  a  volume  by  this  poet  which 
will  definitely  assert  his  place  in  the  public  mind. 
Another  poet  who  has  not  yet  published  a  volume, 
but  whose  work  in  the  magazines  of  late  shows  her 
possessed  of  extraordinary  visual  and  imaginative 
powers,  is  Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell.  I  believe  that 
her  work  was  definitely  introduced  to  an  apprecia 
tive  public  through  the  remarkable  poem  called  the 
"  Sin  Eater,"  which  I  included  in  the  "  Anthol 
ogy  "  for  1913.  She  is  destined  to  go  very  far, 


xix 


for  there  is  an  original  quality  in  her  work  that 
has  all  the  marks  of  genius. 

A  notable  fact  about  the  interest  in  poetry 
during  the  year  is  the  increase  of  critical  writing 
about  contemporary  poets  and  poetry.  There  is 
considerably  more  space  given  to  the  reviews  of 
new  books  of  verse,  and  writers  like  Louis  Unter- 
meyer  in  the  Chicago  Evening  Post  and  Eunice 
Tietjens  in  the  Los  Angeles  Graphic  have  pro 
duced  criticism  of  a  brilliant  and  permanent  char 
acter.  On  the  other  hand,  I  was  surprised  to  learn 
that  during  the  year  a  periodical  like  The  Outlook 
gave  practically  no  heed  to  the  new  volumes  of 
poetry,  publishing  just  one  review  through  the 
entire  twelve  months  which  dealt  with  four  books  of 
verse,  one  more  than  a  year  and  a  half  old  and  the 
other  three  over  six  months  old.  This  is  neither 
creditable  nor  inspiring  from  such  a  publica 
tion. 

The  poet  most  written  about  during  the  year 
was  Emile  Verhaeren,  the  Belgian  writer.  This 
was,  of  course,  due  to  the  war,  and  deplorable  as 
the  circumstance  may  be,  American  readers  were 
benefited  by  acquaintance  with  the  splendid  style 
and  vigor  of  this  writer.  Another  poet  more  writ 
ten  about  than  any  others  in  this  country,  with  the 
possible  exception  of  Frost  and  Masters,  was  Ru 
pert  Brooke.  Here  again  the  war,  this  time  more 
sadly,  brought  immortality  to  a  name  existing  in 
comparative  obscurity.  But  the  death  of  Rupert 
Brooke  was  a  sort  of  climax  to  his  art ;  the  experi 
ence  of  war  brought  out  the  best  that  was  in  him  as 
a  poet.  There  has  been  a  great  deal  of  sentimental 


xx 


and  undiscriminating  praise  of  Brooke;  the  best 
thing  that  has  been  written  about  him  is  Joyce 
Kilmer's  judicious  and  correct  estimate  in  the  New 
York  Times.  Verhaeren,  Brooke,  Frost,  and  Mas 
ters  have  been  largely  the  poetic  topics  of  the  year, 
around  which  has  raged  an  animated  discussion, 
pro  and  con,  about  the  Imagists  inspired  by 
"  Some  Imagist  Poets :  An  Anthology,"  published 
early  in  the  spring. 

THE    CONJUNCTION    OF    THE    IMAGISTS 

Of  the  movement  to  which  Amy  Lowell,  John 
Gould  Fletcher,  Richard  Aldington,  H.  D.,  F.  S. 
Flint,  D.  H.  Lawrence,  and  many  other  poets  both 
in  England  and  America  are  identified,  there  is  a 
great  deal  to  be  said,  and  a  great  deal  has  been 
said  in  their  favor  by  English,  French  and  Russian 
reviews  of  the  highest  standing.  After  all,  a  name 
is  only  a  convenient  handle  by  which  we  carry  the 
identification  of  things.  You  cannot  isolate  a 
force  or  degree  or  quality  of  feeling,  because  the 
shape  and  material  of  language  is  custom-made 
rather  than  ready-made.  All  poetry  comes  out 
of  feeling;  the  degree  to  which  feeling  is  personal 
ized  in  images  determines  not  the  logic  of  form 
but  the  measure  of  emotion  and  imagination  which 
gets  into  the  substance.  It  is  on  this  basis  that 
the  poetry  of  Amy  Lowell,  John  Gould  Fletcher, 
F.  S.  Flint,  and  Richard  Aldington  must  be 
judged.  They  believe  that  what  they  feel,  experi 
encing  life  and  observing  nature,  concerning  the 
mystery  and  wonder  of  things,  can  be  better  repro 
duced  for  communication  if  certain  artificial,  mis- 


xxi 


leading,  and  useless  impediments  of  language  are 
eliminated.  This  is  not  to  say  that  there  must  not 
be  any  decoration,  any  more  than  to  say  that  in 
abandoning,  for  the  purpose,  the  rhythm  of 
metres,  rhythm  cannot  find  any  other  laws  of  con 
trol.  All  really  great  poets  have  broken  the  tra 
ditional  regularities  of  forms  handed  on  to  them  by 
their  predecessors;  they  found  their  genius  could 
not  achieve  within  the  restrictions,  and  instead  of 
adding  to  the  mediocrity  of  the  art,  imposed  tech 
nical  obligations  upon  themselves  which  only  the 
most  rigorous  and  persistent  labors  could  accom 
plish.  This,  it  seems  to  me,  is  what  the  Imagists 
are  doing.  It  is  what  Chaucer,  Shakespeare,  Cole 
ridge,  Blake,  Foe  and  Henley  have  done.  And  it 
is  precisely  the  Imagistic  principle  in  the  work  of 
these  poets  I  have  just  named  which  gives  them  a 
preeminent  position  in  the  art  of  English  poetry. 
Whether  the  poetry  of  this  modern  Imagist  group 
is  great  poetry  is  a  matter  with  which  we  ought  to 
have  little  concern  at  present;  that  it  is  good 
poetry  can  easily  be  proved.  To  prove  it  is  all  a 
matter  of  being  able  to  demonstrate  the  difference 
between  what  is  verse  and  what  is  poetry  in  their 
primary  significance. 

All  art  is  artifice,  Arthur  Symons  once  declared, 
and  the  scope  of  poetry  is  neither  enlarged  nor 
restricted  by  the  range  of  subjects  with  which  it 
deals.  It  depends  entirely  upon  the  force  of  sym 
bols  in  words,  reproducing  upon  the  mind  an  im 
pression  corresponding  in  exactitude  to  the  grada 
tions  of  a  state  of  being  in  objects  or  experience, 


xxn 


and  thereby  presenting  a  reality.  This  is  what 
Poe  accomplished,  whose  telescopic  imagination 
observed  but  a  small  space  of  the  starry  emotions 
of  humanity.  So,  if  the  Imagists  in  their  poems 
show  a  vibratory  sensitiveness  to  natural  realities, 
and  actually  bring  to  us  sensations  of  heat  and 
light,  of  windy  beaches,  meadows,  city  streets  and 
leaves,  it  must  be  the  result  of  an  active  imagina 
tion  stimulated  by  the  only  force  upon  which  it  is 
dependent  and  interrelated  —  the  emotional.  But 
to  say  that  the  Imagists  are  only  concerned  in  their 
poetry  with  natural  objects  is  to  disregard  the 
human  relations  that  are  woven  in  the  essential 
spirit  of  this  external  world. 

Writing  in  vers  libre  does  not  constitute  the 
whole  purpose  of  the  Imagist  poets.  In  fact,  they 
have  employed  both  regular  rhythms  and  rhyme  in 
their  work.  Whether  employing  the  medium  of 
vers  libre  or  metre,  they  have  shown,  especially  in 
a  certain  intensifying  quality  of  mood,  the  first 
note  of  pure  romanticism  in  English  poetry  of  the 
last  decade.  The  final  test  of  poetry  is  its  magic. 
It  is  not  the  feeling  of  contemplative  anxiety 
aroused  by  the  philosophic  or  moral  imagination 
that  gives  to  poetry  its  highest  value  as  an  art,  but 
the  agitated  wonder  awakened  in  the  spirit  of  the 
reader  by  the  sudden  evocation  of  magic.  This  is 
the  haunting  quality  in  poetry,  a  thing  that  has  no 
web  of  reasoning,  and  whose  elements  are  so  un 
accountably  mixed  that  no  man  has  yet  learned  its 
secret.  And  in  this  poetry,  as  often  as  it  is  to  be 
found  in  other  verse  of  equal  quantity,  there 


xxm 


speaks  that  alluring  voice  whose  secret  is  in  the 
eternal  and  pure  wizardry  of  Keats' 

Charm'd  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn. 

W.  S.  B. 

Feast  of  St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  1915 
Cambridge,  Massachusetts. 


xxiv 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

The  existence  of  this  volume,  and  the  others  in 
the  series  —  those  already  published  and  the  issues 
promised  for  the  future  —  is  due  to  the  co 
operative  spirit  of  the  poets,  the  editors  and  pro 
prietors  of  the  magazines,  and  the  publishers, 
working  with  me  for  the  advancement  and  glory  of 
American  poetry.  However  large  a  success  in  cir 
culation  these  volumes  may  attain,  I  wish  the  work 
to  be  regarded  as  an  introduction  to  a  large  and 
variegated  field  of  beauty  to  which  it  serves  as  the 
gateway.  Enticed  to  the  gateway  by  the  exam 
ples  I  have  gathered  from  the  untrodden  fields 
within,  it  is  my  desire,  and  the  purpose  for  which  I 
have  worked,  that  readers  should  enter  in  con 
course  and  explore  these  rich  fields  for  themselves. 
My  labors  have  not  been  perfect,  but  they  have 
been  heavy,  faithful  and  enduring, —  and  I  hope 
not  in  vain. 

To  the  American  poets,  to  the  editors  and  pro 
prietors  of  the  magazines  in  the  summary,  and  from 
whose  pages  poems  were  selected  for  inclusion  in 
the  "  Anthology,"  and  to  the  publishers  for  per 
mission  to  use  poems  which  have,  or  shortly  are,  to 
appear  in  volumes  by  the  poets  chosen  from  the 
magazines,  I  wish  to  offer  my  hearty  thanks  for 
their  courteous  and  willing  help.  One  exception 
must  be  noted,  to  answer  a  question  —  and  reaffirm 
my  impartiality  —  that  has  been  often  asked  me 
by  poets,  critics,  librarians,  and  correspondents. 
That  is,  why  I  do  not  include  The  Atlantic 
Monthly  in  my  summary  of  the  magazines.  The 


xxv 


reason  is  that  the  editor,  Mr.  Ellery  Sidgwick, 
after  many  requests,  has  persistently  refused  to 
supply,  as  all  the  other  editors  do,  copies  of  the 
magazine  for  the  purpose.  He  was  urged  to  this 
he  claimed  in  reducing  his  complimentary  list,  and 
yet  I  know  of  complimentary  copies  going  to  men 
who  are  dead.  I  merely  state  this  in  answer  to  the 
numerous  inquiries  I  have  received,  and  to  main 
tain  my  position  of  strict  impartiality,  which  I 
have  endeavored  to  make  a  virtue  in  this  work. 

To  treat  poetry  with  the  seriousness  that  I  have 
attempted  in  this  work,  not  only  in  the  "  Anthol 
ogy?"  but  in  the  Year  Book  features,  is  an  innova 
tion  that  some  publishers  do  not  regard  with  con- 
'  sideration,  and  take  full  advantage  of.  With  few 
exceptions  the  assistance  has  not  been  voluntary  as 
their  habit  is  with  other  kinds  of  literature,  and  I 
have  found  difficulties  in  making  my  records  and 
reviews  as  complete  as  I  would  like,  and  as  it  is 
important,  to  make  them.  From  individuals,  as 
well  as  publishers,  I  would  like  to  receive  during  the 
year  all  information  about  books  of  poems,  books 
about  poets  and  poetry,  and  the  volumes  upon  pub 
lication.  These  must  be  sent  direct  to  my  address, 
27  Ellsworth  Avenue,  Cambridge,  Massachusetts. 

To  the  following  publishers  I  am  indebted  for 
permission  to  use  selections  chosen  from  the  mag 
azines,  and  which  they  are  issuing  in  book  form  for 
the  poets: 

The  Macmillan  Co. :  "  Sunset  Balconies,"  in 
The  Pilgrim  Kings:  Greco  and  Goya  and  Other 
Poems  of  Spain,  by  Thomas  Walsh ;  "  Joy,"  "  The 
Cloud,"  "  Testament,"  and  "The  Answer,"  in 


Rivers  to  the  Sea,  by  Sara  Teasdale ;  "  Hannah 
Armstrong,"  and  "  Washington  McNeeley,"  in 
Spoon  River  Anthology,  by  Edgar  Lee  Masters. 

Mitchell  Kennerley :  "  La  Gitana,"  in  Proces 
sionals,  by  John  Curtis  Underwood ;  "  Prayer  for 
Peace,"  in  Prayer  for  Peace  and  Other  Poems,  by 
William  Samuel  Johnson ;  "  Passages  from  a  Poem : 
The  New  World,"  in  The  New  World,  by  Witter 
Bynner. 

Houghton  Mifflin  Co. :  "  Sea  Iris,"  by  H.  D., 
in  Some  Imagist  Poets :  An  Anthology.  "  The 
[Bombardment,"  by  Amy  Lowell,  in  Some  Imagist 
Poets:  An  Anthology.  "The  Barberry  Bush" 
in  Afternoons  of  April,  by  Grace  Hazard  Conk- 
ling. 

Harper  and  Brothers :  "  Gayheart :  A  Story  of 
Defeat,"  in  Poems,  by  Dana  Burnet. 

Yale  University  Press :  "  The  Maker  of  Im 
ages,"  in  Poems,  by  Brian  Hooker. 

Henry  Holt  &  Co. :  "  The  Death  of  the  Hired 
Man,"  in  North  of  Boston,  by  Robert  Frost. 

John  Lane  Co. :  "  For  the  Dedication  of  a 
Toy  Theatre,"  in  The  House  that  Was,  by  Benja 
min  R.  C.  Low. 

The  John  C.  Winston  Co.:  "A  Cyprian 
Woman :  Greek  Folk  Song,"  and  "  God  and  the 
Strong  Ones,"  in  The  Factories  and  Other  Poems, 
by  Margaret  Widdemer. 

Sherman,  French  &  Co. :  "  A  Statue  in  a  Gar 
den,"  in  The  Sharing,  by  Agnes  Lee. 


XXVll 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  POEMS 


INVOCATION 

O  Thou  whose  equal  purpose  runs 
In  drops  of  rain  or  streams  of  suns, 
And  with  a  soft  compulsion  rolls 
The  green  earth  on  her  snowy  poles; 
O  Thou  who  keepest  in  thy  ken 
The  times  of  flowers,  the  dooms  of  men, 
Stretch  out  a  mighty  wing  above  — 
Be  tender  to  the  land  we  love ! 

If  all  the  huddlers  from  the  storm 
Have  found  her  hearthstone  wide  and  warm  j 
If  she  has  made  men  free  and  glad, 
Sharing,  with  all,  the  good  she  had; 
If  she  has  blown  the  very  dust 
From  her  bright  balance  to  be  just, 
Oh,  spread  a  mighty  wing  above  — 
Be  tender  to  the  land  we  love! 

When  in  the  dark  eternal  tower 
The  star-clock  strikes  her  trial  hour, 
And  for  her  help  no  more  avail 
Her  sea-blue  shield,  her  mountain-mail, 
But  sweeping  wide,  from  gulf  to  lakes, 
The  battle  on  her  forehead  breaks, 
Throw  Thou  a  thunderous  wing  above  — 
Be  lightning  for  the  land  we  love ! 

Atlantic  Monthly  Wendell  Phillips  Stafford. 


CRADLE  SONG 


Lord  Gabriel,  wilt  thou  not  rejoice 
When  at  last  a  little  boy's 


Cheek  lies  heavy  as  a  rose, 
And  his  eyelids  close? 

Gabriel,  when  that  hush  may  be, 
This  sweet  hand  all  heedfully 
I'll  undo,  for  thee  alone, 
From  his  mother's  own. 

Then  the  far  blue  highways  paven 
With  the  burning  stars  of  heaven 
He  shall  gladden  with  the  sweet 
Hasting  of  his   feet  — 

Feet  so  brightly  bare  and  cool, 
Leaping,  as  from  pool  to  pool; 
From  a  little  laughing  boy 
Splashing  rainbow  joy! 

Gabriel,  wilt  thou  understand 
How  to  keep  his  hovering  hand?  — 
Never  shut,  as  in  a  bond 

From  the  bright  beyond?  — 

Nay,  but  though  it  cling  and  close 
Tightly  as  a  climbing  rose, 
Clasp  it  only  so, —  aright, 
Lest  his  heart  take  fright. 

(Dormi,   dormi,   tu : 

The  dusk  is  hung  with  blue.) 


n 


Lord  Michael,  wilt  not  thou  rejoice 
When  at  last  a  little  boy's 

Heart,  a  shut-in  murmuring  bee, 
Turns  him  unto  thee? 


Wilt  thou  heed  thine  armor  well, — 
To  take  his  hand  from  Gabriel 
So  his  radiant  cup  of  dream 
May  not  spill  a  gleam? 

He  will  take  thy  heart  in  thrall, 
Telling  o'er  thy  breastplate,  all 
Colors,  in  his  bubbling  speech, 
With  his  hand  to  each. 

(Dormi,  dormi  tu. 

Sapphire  is  the  blue; 

Pearl  and  beryl,  they  are  called, 

Chrysoprase   and   emerald, 

Sard  and  amethyst. 

Numbered  so,  and  kissed.) 

Ah,  but  find  some  angel  word 
For  thy  sharp,  subduing  sword ! 
Yea,  Lord  Michael,  make  no  doubt 
He  will  find  it  out: 

(Dormi,  dormi  tu!) 

His  eyes  will  look  at  you. 


in 

Last,  a  little  morning  space, 
Lead  him  to  that  leafy  place 
Where  Our  Lady  sits  awake, 
For  all  mothers'  sake. 

Bosomed  with  the  Blessed  One, 
He  shall  mind  her  of  her  Son, 
Once  so  folded  from  all  harms, 
In  her  shrining  arms. 


3 


(In  her  veil  of  blue, 
Dormi,  dormi  £«.) 

So ;  —  and  fare  thee  well. — 
Softly, —  Gabriel  .  .  . 
When  the  first  faint  red  shall  come, 
Bid  the  Day-star  lead  him  home, 
For  the  bright  World's  sake, — 
To  my  heart,  awake. 

Scribner's  Magazine    Josephine  Preston  Peabody 

THE  HAUNTING  FACE 

On  the  Portrait  of  a  Child  Lost  in  the  Lusitania 

Dear  boy  of  the  seraphic  face, 

With  brow  of  power  and  mouth  of  grace, 

And  deep,  round  eyes,  set  far  apart, 

So  that  the  mind  should  match  the  heart! 

Not  Raffael's  leaning  cherub  had 
More  beauty  than  this  winsome  lad, 
Nor  Andrea's  little  John  more  joy 
Than  dimpled  in  this  darling  boy. 

What  mother  could  so  happy  be 
As  not  to  covet  such  as  he? 
What  childless  passer  could  forego 
The  smiling  of  that  Cupid's  bow? 

Here  promise  spoke  in  every  curve; 
The  wit  to  see,  the  heart  to  serve; 
In  fine  proportions  here  did  reign 
An  open  nature,  sweet  and  sane. 

What  wonder  fancy  vied  with  hope 
To  read  his  radiant  horoscope, 


And  find  within  his  future  deed 
The   rescue  of  some  mighty  need:  — 

A  patriot  to  save  the  State; 
A  bard  to  take  the  sting  from  Fate; 
A  prophet  men  should  know  not  of 
To  lift  the  fainting  world  of  love! 

Mourn  those  —  and  mourn  not  with  despair  - 
Who  find  life's  last  adventure  fair, 
But  let  your  treasured  tears  be  spilled 
For  noble  presage  unfulfilled. 

Mine  fall  unbidden  as  I  look 
Here  upon  Youth's  unfinished  book, 
And  with  the  loss  my  heart  is  torn 
As  Heaven  had  withdrawn  the  morn. 

Ah,  could  I  know  why  over  me 
His  spirit  has  such  potency, 
Then  might  I  know  how  love  began 
And  stays,  the  mystery  of  Man. 

Child  of  the  future!     Beauty's  flower! 
His  gentle  image  should  have  power 
The  conscience  of  a  realm  to  wring 
And  haunt  the  pillow  of  a  King. 

New  York  Evening  Post 

Robert   Underwood  Johnson 


THE  BACCHANTE  TO  HER  BABE 

Scherzo 

Come,  sprite,  and  dance!     The  sun  is  up, 
The  wind  runs  laughing  down  the  sky 
That  brims  with  morning  like  a  cup. 


Sprite,  we  must  race  him, 

We  must  chase  him  — 

You  and  I ! 

And  skim  across  the  fuzzy  heather  — 

You  and  joy  and  I  together 

Whirling  by ! 

You  merry  little  roll  of  fat!  — 
Made  warm  to  kiss,  and  smooth  to  pat, 
And  round  to  toy  with,  like  a  cub; 
To  put  one's  nozzle  in  and  rub 
And  breathe  you  in  like  breath  of  kine, 
Like  juice  of  vine, 

That  sets  my  morning  heart  a-tingling, 
Dancing,  jingling, 
All  the  glad  abandon  mingling 
Of  wind  and  wine! 

Sprite,  you  are  love,  and  you  are  joy, 
A  happiness,  a  dream,  a  toy, 
A  god  to  laugh  with, 
Love  to  chaff  with, 
The  sun  come  down  in  tangled  gold, 
The  moon  to  kiss,  and  spring  to  hold. 

There  was  a  time  once,  long  ago, 
Long  —  oh,  long  since  ...  I  scarcely  know. 
Almost  I  had  forgot  .  .  . 
There  was  a  time  when  you  were  not, 
You  merry  sprite,  save  as  a  strain, 
The  strange  dull  pain 
Of  green  buds  swelling 
In  warm,  straight  dwelling 
That  must  burst  to  the  April  rain. 
A  little  heavy  I  was  then 
And  dull  —  and  glad  to  rest.     And  when 
The  travail  came 


6 


In  searing  flame  .  .  . 

But,  sprite,  that  was  so  long  ago!  — 

A  century!  —  I  scarcely  know. 

Almost  I  had  forgot 

When  you  were  not. 

So,  little   sprite,  come  dance  with  me! 
The  sun  is  up,  the  wind  is  free ! 
Come  now  and  trip  it, 
Romp  and  skip  it, 
Earth  is  young  and  so  are  we. 
Sprite,  you  and  I  will  dance  together 
On  the  heather, 

Glad  with  all  the  procreant  earth, 
With  all  the  fruitage  of  the  trees, 
And  golden  pollen  on  the  breeze, 
With  plants  that  bring  the  grain  to  birth, 
With  beast  and  bird, 
Feathered  and  furred, 
With  youth  and  hope  and  life  and  love, 
And  joy  thereof  — 
While  we  are  part  of  all,  we  two  — 
For  my  glad  burgeoning  in  you! 

So,  merry  little  roll  of  fat, 
Made  warm  to  kiss  and  smooth  to  pat 
And  round  to  toy  with,  like  a  cub, 
To  put  one's  nozzle  in  and  rub, 
My  god  to  laugh  with, 
Love  to  chaff  with, 
Come  and  dance  beneath  the  sky, 
You  and  I ! 

Look  out  with  those  round  wondering  eyes, 
And  squirm,  and  gurgle  —  and  grow  wise ! 

Poetry:     A  Magazine  of  Verse     Eunice  Tietjens 


THE  MUSICMAKER'S  CHILD 

A  maiden,  waiting  for  a  man  to  take  her: 
Then,  for  the  love  of  his  blue  eyes, 
She  wandered  after  Weir  the  musicmaker. 

I  know  the  burden  of  the  tide, 

I  catch  the  cry  and  moan  of  every  breaker, 

I  read  the  secrets  of  the  sands  — 

I,  the  child  of  Weir  the  musicmaker. 

In  the  white  hush  before  the  storm, 
I  hear  a  heavy  calling  from  the  ocean  — 
The  souls  of  men  who  drowned  at  sea, 
Aweary  of  its  restless,  flowing  motion. 

"  I   am  choked  with  sand," 
Says  Jan  the  fisher. 
"  A  pearl  in  each  hand," 
Says  Jan  the  fisher. 

"  One  for  the  earth, 
My  grave  to  be; 
One  for  the  priest 
Will  pray  for  me." 

And  Michael  of  the  Wild   Rocks,  his  bright  beard 

streaming. 
"  Give  me  Christian  burial,  and  a  stone   above  my 

head! 
For  I've  a  wife,"  says  he,  "  and  my  babe  is  on  her 

knee; 
And  she  has  naught  to  weep  on  but  a  memory  of  the 

dead." 

Old  Fergus  lies  sleeping,  and  calls  in  his  sleep, 
His  white  hair  all  matted  with  weeds  of  the  sea: 

8 


"  I  have  Shawn  and  Colom  who  watch  for  me  — 
Shall  my  two  sons  not  call  me  from  out  the  deep  ?  " 

And  the  soul  of  Peter  Day, 
That  young,  young  lad, 
Whose  quick,  warm  heart 
Was  all  the  wealth  he  had, 

"  O  dear  Lord  God,"  he  prays, 
"  There  on  the  shore 
Was  a  girl  used  to  walk 
Who'll  never  walk  there  more. 

"  It's  in  church  and  holy  ground 

That  Janet  lies: 

For  my  grave  next  hers, 

I  will  give  up  Paradise." 

Lord  God  has  heeded  Peter  Day; 

He  has  thrown  his  body  on  the  white  sand  stretches: 

And  they  have  laid  him  by  a  grave 

That's  two  years  overgrown  with  docks  and  vetches. 

"  Is  it  not  strange,"  they  say  in  Culm, 
"  That  he  alone  came  in  upon  the  breaker?  " 
I  smile  my  wise  smile  to  myself  — 
I,  the  child  of  Weir  the  musicmaker. 

Poetry:     A  Magazine  of  Verse 

Miriam  Allen  de  Ford 

TO  IMAGINATION 

Suggested  by  Maxfield  Parrish's  "  Air  Castles  " 

O  beauteous  boy  a-dream,  what  visions  sought 

Of  pictures  magical  thy  eyes  unfold, 
What   triumphs   of   celestial   wonders    wrought, 


What  marvels  from  a  breath  of  beauty  rolled ! 
Skyward  and  seaward  on  the  clouds  are  scrolled 

A  mystic  imagery  of  castled  thought, 
A  thousand  worlds  to  lose, —  or  win  and  mold, — 

A  radiant  iridescence  swiftly  caught 
Of  ever-changing  glory,  fancy-fraught. 

Blue  wonder  of  the  sea  and  luminous  sky, — 

A  thousand  wonders  in  thy  dreamlit  face, — 
Eyes  that  beheld  afar  the  turrets  high 

Of  Ilium,  and  the  transient  mortal  grace 
Of  Deirdre's  sadness,  all  the  conquering  race 

Of  Athens, —  eyes  that  saw  Eden's  beauty  lie 
In  passionate  adoration  —  visions  trace 

Across  the  tender  brooding  of  the  sigh 
That  wrecked  a  city  and  made  chieftains  die. 

Forward  not  backward  turns  the  mystic  shine 

Of  those  far-seeing  orbs  that  track  the  gleam  — 
The  fleecy  marvel  of  the  cloud  is  line 

On  line  the  wizard  tracery  of  a  dream. 
O  lad,  who  buildest  not  of  things  that  seem, 

Beyond  what  bounds  of  visioning  divine 
Came  that  far  smile,  from  what  long-strayed  sunbeam 

Caught  thou  the  radiance,  from  what  fostering  vine 
The  power  to  build  and  mold  the  deep  design  ? 

Knowest  thou  the  secret  that  thy  brush  would  tell, 

Is  all  the  dream  a  bubbled  splendor  white, 
Beyond  those  castles  cloud-bound,  does  there  dwell 

The  eternal  silence  of  the  dark  —  or  light  ? 
Will  thy  hand  hold  the  pen  which  shall  indict 

The  symbolled  mystery  —  write  the  final  knell 
Of  rainbow  fancy  —  is  the  distant  sight 

A  nothingness  encircled  by  the  spell 
Of  gleaming  bubbles  wrought  of  beauty's   shell? 

10 


In  vain  to  question,  where  tKe  mystery 

Of  Youth's  short  golden  dream  is  lord  and  king. 
The  eyes  that  farthest  gaze  in  ecstasy, 

Were  never  meant  to  paint  the  immortal  thing 
They  see,  nor  understand  the  joy  they  bring. 

The  misty  baubles  of  the  sky  and  sea 
Sail  on.     Dream  still,  bright-visioned  boy,  and  fling 

The  glittering  mantle  of  thy  thoughts   that  flee, 
Weaving  us  evermore  thy  shining  pageantry. 

The   Poetry   Journal 

Dorothea  Lawrence  Mann 


HERITAGE 

SLEEP,  SLEEP,  MY  BABY,  SLEEP ! 

Thou  art  fairer  than  the  lilies  that  grow  beside  the 

pool, 

As  dew  upon  the  lilies  on  my  breast  thy  lips  are  cool; 
Thy  breath  hath  caught  the  fragrance  of  the  winds 

that  love  to  stir 
Beneath  the  budding  branches  of  my  bed  of  lavender. 

Like  the  nectarines  that  ripened  upon  the  southern 

wall 
Thy  rosy  cheeks  how  sweet  they  are,  how  softly  round , 

and  small; 
And  thine  eyes  are  like  the  flower  whose  name  I  do  not 

know 
That  in  the  shady  corner  of  my  garden  used  to  grow. 


SLEEP,  SLEEP,  MY  BABY,  SLEEP 


Oh !  they  broke  into  my  garden,  they  brought  no  holy 
priest, 

11 


No  sacrament  they  offered  me,  they  made  no  mar 
riage  feast; 

Yet  the  Wedding  Guest  of  Cana  beside  me  must  have 
been, 

Or  whence  this  living  water  in  the  red  wine-cup  of 
sin? 

I  have  eaten  the  wild  honey  stored  by  the  wandering 

bees, 
Have  crushed  my  fallen  roses  and  breathed  attar  from 

the  lees, 
Found  a  shade-tree  in  the  desert  and  in  the  midnight 

hills 
Have  drunk  reviving  liquor  from  life's  old  forbidden 

stills. 


SLEEP,  SLEEP,  MY  BABY,  SLEEP 


For  they  drove  me  from  my  garden;  an  exile  past 

recall, 

A  goodly  heritage  I  found  beyond  that  garden  wall. 
Heir  of  an  ancient  line  am  I,  as  old  as  history, 
The  exiles  of  the  Ages  leave  their  legacies  to  me. 

Mine   is   the  alabaster   box   whose   costly   spikenard 

.  poured 
Upon  the  weary  feet  of  Him  whom  Mary  owned  her 

Lord. 
Its  treasured  secrets  are  mine  own;  its  mystic  seal 

I  keep; 
I  break  it,  empty  it  in  song, —  to  hush  a  child  to  sleep. 

SLEEP,  SLEEP,  MY  BABY,  SLEEP.' 

Here  is  the  seed  Eve  took  with  her  when  weeping  she 

was  sent 
From  the  Garden  of  the  Rivers  in  endless  banishment. 

12 


This  stain  upon  the  cover  is  a  sign  upon  it  laid 

By  an  unremembered  woman,  the  far  mysterious  maid 

Of  the  country  East  of  Eden, —  Cain's  dark  kiss  upon 

her  fell. 
And  this  vial,  once  was  Hagar's,  filled  with  tears  of 

Ishmael. 
Here  is  a  song  of  Bathsheba's,  the  lowly  Hittite's 

bride, 
She  sang  it  to  King  David's  son,  the  nameless  one, 

who  died. 

SLEEP,  SLEEP,  MY  BABY,  SLEEP ! 

These  are  the  words  the  Master  spake,  memorial 
of  her, 

The  wasteful  one  of  Magdala  who  spilled  her  precious 
myrrh. 

Here  are  withered  berries  perfumed  with  the  Pas 
sion-Flower's  breath, 

And  saving  drops  distilled  from  the  poison-plants  of 
Death. 

Ah!   at  last,   at  last,   thou'rt   sleeping;   thy   Mother 

too  would  rest; 
And  should  neither  of  us  waken,  it  may  be  it  were 

best. 
Thou   art    fairer   than   the   lilies, —  thine   eyes   have 

caught  the  blue 
Of  the  little  wind-blown  flower  that  in  my  garden 

grew. 
The  Bellman  Theresa  Virginia  Beard 


13 


A  SPRING  SYMPHONY 

Allegro  con  Moto 

The  touch  of  the  springtime  has  broken  the  ice  of  the 
pond  — 

It  laughs  and  it  sighs 

The  trees  of  the  bank  and  the  clouds  that  go  sailing 
beyond 

See  themselves  in  its  eyes. 

A  shimmer  of  topaz  by  day  and  of  silver  by  night 
It  trembles  for  joy  at  the  touch  of  the  wind  and  the 

light. 
Birds  dip  their  wings  there  and  ripples  to  melody 

start. 

Is    it    the    springtime  —  or    you  —  whose    imperious 
wand 

Has  broken  the  ice  of  my  heart? 

Andante  Appassionato 

Through  the  dark  you  sought  and  found  me 
There  is  no  word  for  us  to  speak  — 
Only  your  arms  that  close  around  me, 
Only  your  cheek  against  my  cheek, 
Slowly  toward  each  other  turning 
Sure  as  the  skies  turn.     Look,  there  slips 
A  star  from  heaven  —  and  now  'tis  burning 
Here,  love  .  .  .  upon  our  lips. 

Scherzo  —  Finale,  Presto 

Love  me  for  a  lifetime,  love  me  for  a  day, 

Little  do  I  care. 
Light  across  the  meadows  laughing  comes  the  May, 

Spring  is  in  the  air. 
Little  lambs  like  daisies  dot  the  fields   with  white, 

14 


The  silliest  sheep  that  grazes  feels  the  world's  delight. 
We  are  two  white  butterflies  on  the  wind  astray, 

Flying  —  who  knows  where? 
Skies  are  blue  above  us,  earth  is  green  below, 

Golden  is  the  sun  — 
Golden  as  the  cowslips  where  in  merry  flow 

Little  rivers  run  — 

Golden  as  the  beating  of  wild  wings  agleam, 
Golden  as  our  meeting,  golden  as  our  dream  — 
Wild  lover,  child  lover,  kiss  me  now  and  go, 

Ere  the  dream  is  done 

The  Bellman  Amelia  Josephine  Burr 

PETER  QUINCE  AT  THE  CLAVIER 


Just  as  my  fingers  on  these  keys 
Make  music,  so  the  self-same  sounds 
On  my  spirit  make  a  music,  too. 

Music  is  feeling,  then,  not  sound; 
And  thus  it  is  that  what  I  feel, 
Here  in-  this  room,  desiring  you, 

Thinking  of  your  blue-shadowed  silk, 
Is  music.     It  is  like  the  strain 
Waked  in  the  elders  by  Susanna: 

Of  a  green  evening,  clear  and  warm, 
She  bathed  in  her  still  garden,  while 
The  red-eyed  elders,  watching,  felt 

The  basses  of  their  beings  throb 

In  witching  chords,  and  their  thin  blood 

Pulse  pizzicati  of  Hosanna. 

15 


II 

In  the  green  water,  clear  and  warm, 

Susanna  lay. 

She  searched 

The  touch  of   Springs, 

And  found 

Concealed  imaginings. 

She  sighed, 

For  so  much  melody. 

Upon  the  bank,  she  stood 

In  the  cool 

Of  spent  emotions. 

She  felt,  among  the  leaves, 

The  dew 

Of  old  devotions. 

She  walked  upon  the  grass, 

Still  quavering. 

The  winds  were  like  her  maids, 

On  timid  feet, 

Fetching  her  woven  scarves, 

Yet  wavering. 

A  breath  upon  her  hand 
Muted  the  night. 
She  turned  — 
A  cymbal  crashed, 
And  roaring  horns. 

in 

Soon,  with  a  noise  like  tambourines, 
Came  her  attendant  Byzantines. 

They  wondered  why   Susanna  cried 
Against  the  elders  by  her  side; 

16 


And  as  they  whispered,  the  refrain 
Was  like  a  willow  swept  by  rain. 

Anon,  their  lamps'  uplifted  flame 
Revealed  Susanna  and  her  shame. 

And  then,  the  simpering  Byzantines, 
Fled,  with  a  noise  like  tambourines. 

IV 

Beauty  is  momentary  in  the  mind  — 
The  fitful  tracing  of  a  portal; 
But  in  the  flesh  it  is  immortal. 

The  body  dies;  the  body's  beauty  lives, 
So  evenings  die,  in  their  green  going, 
A  wave,  interminably  flowing. 
So  gardens  die,  their  meek  breath  scenting 
The  cowl  of  Winter,  done  repenting. 
So  maidens  die,  to  the  auroral 
Celebration  of  a  maiden's  choral. 

Susanna's  music  touched  the  bawdy  strings 
Of  those  white  elders;  but,  escaping, 
Left  only  Death's  ironic  scraping. 

Now,  in  its  immortality,  it  plays 
On  the  clear  viol  of  her  memory, 
And  makes  a  constant  sacrament  of  praise. 

Others:     A  Magazine  of  the  New  Verse 

Wallace  Stevens 


JOY 

I  am  wild,  I  will  sing  to  the  trees, 
I  will  sing  to  the  stars  in  the  sky, 

17 


I  love,  I  am  loved,  he  is  mine, 
Now  at  last  I  can  die! 

I  am  sandaled  with  wind  and  with  flame, 
I  have  heart-fire  and  singing  to  give, 

I  can  tread  on  the  grass  or  the  stars, 
Now  at  last  I  can  live! 

Reedy's  Mirror  Sara  Teasdale 


BALLAD  OF  AMARYLLIS  IN  THE  SHADE 

Were  it  not  better  done  —  the  time  being  Spring  — 
Grim  poet,  the  iron  of  whose  Cromwellian  lyre 

Is  sistered  with  so  soft  a  lyric  string, 

To  cast  dry  wisdom  crackling  on  the  fire, 
To  follow  the  green  pathways  of  desire, 

Where  April  flutters  like  a  flying  maid  — 

Though  others  to  the  topmost  stars  aspire  — 

To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade? 

To  rule  wouldst  thou  ?  —  to  be  the  sorry  king 

Of  this  poor  kingdom  of  the  fool  and  liar 
We  call  the  world;  or,  a  still  stranger  thing, 

Wouldst  swink  and  sweat,  and  house  thee  in  the 
mire, 

And  sell  thy  strong  soul  for  a  captive's  hire, 
While  tyrants  eat,  and  hear  sweet  music  played? 

Were  it  not  better  done  —  what  need  inquire?  — 
To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade? 

While  all  is  still  new  blossom  and  young  wing, 
And  life's  a  flame  still  mounting  higher  and  higher, 

While  still  Youth's  gold  is  thine  to  flaunt  and  fling, 
Heed  not  dim  counsels  of  some  shrivelled  sire; 
Spake  he  but  sooth,  upon  the  funeral  pyre 

18 


One  dream  shall  linger  as  his  ashes  fade  — 

Of  Love's  plumed  feet  aflame  through  brake  and 

brier, 
To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade. 

ENVOI 

My  Prince,  what  better  dream  should  man  require 
To  close  his  eyes?     And  I  have  heard  it  said 

That  Death's  a  garden  where  we  but  retire  — 
"  To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade." 

Puck  Richard  Le  Gallienne 

SUNSET  BALCONIES 

For  me  no  winter  twilight  falls 

But  brings  a  dream  of  gold, 
Since  well  I  know  their  dear  white  walls 

Are  gleaming  as  of  old; 
I  know  that  down  arcaded  square 
And  narrow  street  they  still  are  there 
Dolores,  Pilar,  Mercedes, 
Reclining  in  the  balconies. 

Mercedes,  who  belies  the  name 

Of  her  sweet  patroness  renowned 
As  Queen  of  Mercies,  shrined  in  flame, 

At  Barcelona  crowned; 
And  Pilar,  little  face  of  rose, 
Whose  Virgin  on  the  pillar  glows 

At  Saragossa;  there  they  rest, 
Their  dark  eyes  golden  with  the  west. 

Though  the  seven  swords  of  silver  press, 

In  high  Granada's  shrine 
Her  velvet-mantled  patroness 

Of  Mother-Grief  divine, 

19 


Dolores  only  smiles  to  scan 

The  sunset  on  her  spangled  fan, 

Whose  sparkle  lights  again  the  grace 
That  memory  treasures  of  her  face. 

Scribner's  Magazine  Thomas  Walsh 

LA  GITANA 

None  of  the  girls  of  Ronda  have  feet  as  fine  as  mine, 
That  glimmer  and  glance  through  the  whirl  of  the 

dance  as  fireflies  blaze  and  shine, 
Seen  in  some  shadowy  rambla  outside  of  a  gay  cafe. 
None  of  the  girls  in  Ronda  can  dance  down  death, 

my  way. 

Carmen   and   fat   Conchita   can    sell   themselves    for 

shoes, 
Black  as  their  souls  with  the  heels  of  red,  such  as  the 

Cubans  use. 
They  can  sell  themselves   for  their  stockings,  their 

spider  webs  of  silk, 
And  their  feet  like  their  brows  are  brazen,  but  mine 

are  white  as  milk. 

For  mine  was  a  Northern  mother  my  gypsy  father 

found 
In    a   brothel    in    Biscaya.     And   love   in  'drink   he 

drowned. 

So  I  grew  up  in  the  gutter,  slinking  and  wild  to  be 
Alone,  alive,  in  the  open,  sunlit,  and  flushed  and  free, 
Naked  in  running  rivers.     So  I  must  dance  to-day 
Where  the  eyes  of  the  men  are  upon  my  face  and 

flesh  like  beasts  of  prey. 

And  the  tongues  of  the  tawdry  women  they  tear  my 
life  apart 

20 


And  they  smear  my  name  with  their  women's  shame 

as  their  teeth  would  tear  my  heart, 
As  they'd  rip  the  flesh  away  from  my  face  and  the 

bodice  from  my  breasts. 
And  the  wave  of  life  is  around  me.     I  am  lifted  on  its 

crests. 
I  am  lifted  high  on  its  surges;  and  the  light  it  lends 

my  eyes 
Is  the  strength  of  moon  and  sunrise  and  the  splendor 

of  the  skies. 

I  am  caged  in  their  snarling  city,  but  between  its 

shadowy  bars 
I  see  the  loom  of  to-morrow  and  the  altar  lights  of 

stars. 

Savage,  violent,  virgin;  like  a  trainer  in  their  cage, 
They   snarl   at   my   looks   like  lashes,   these   women 

marred  with  age, 
These  men  that  my  mind  has  mastered;  and  I  rule 

their  restless  lives 
With  my  feet  that  flicker  through  shadows  like  the 

bickering  light  of  knives. 

I  dance  and  they  bow  before  me.     Barefoot  I  turn, 

I  tread 
On  the  throbbing  hearts  of  the  living  and  the  ashes 

of  the  dead. 
I  dance  till  I  stop,  where  he  stands  apart,  till  I  hold 

his  love  and  hate: 
Master  and  man  and  the  bravest  heart,  sultan  and 

slave  and  mate. 
The  Forum  John  Curtis  Underwood 


21 


PATTERNS 

I  walk  down  the  garden  paths, 

And  all  the  daffodils 

Are  blowing,  and  the  bright  blue  squills. 

I  walk  down  the  patterned  garden  paths 

In  my  stiff,  brocaded  gown. 

With  my  powdered  hair  and  jewelled  fan, 

I  too  am  a  rare 

Pattern.     As  I  wander  down 

The  garden  paths. 

My  dress  is  richly  figured, 

And  the  train 

Makes  a  pink  and  silver  stain 

On  the  gravel,  and  the  thrift 

Of  the  borders. 

Just  a  plate  of  current  fashion, 

Tripping  by  in  high-heeled,  ribboned  shoes. 

Not  a  softness  anywhere  about  me, 

Only  a  whale-bone  and  brocade. 

And  I  sink  on  a  seat  in  the  shade 

Of  a  lime  tree.     For  my  passion 

Wars  against  the  stiff  brocade. 

The  daffodils  and  squills 

Flutter  in  the  breeze 

As  they  please. 

And  I  weep; 

For  the  lime  tree  is  in  blossom 

And  one  small  flower  has  dropped  upon  my  bosom. 

And  the  splashing  of  waterdrops 
In  the  marble  fountain 
Comes  down  the  garden  paths. 
The  dripping  never  stops. 
Underneath  my  stiffened  gown 


Is  the  softness  of  a  woman  bathing  in  a  marble  basin, 

A  basin  in  the  midst  of  hedges  grown 

So  thick,  she  cannot  see  her  lover  hiding, 

But  she  guesses  he  is  near, 

And  the  sliding  of  the  water 

Seems  the  stroking  of  a  dear 

Hand  upon  her. 

What  is  Summer  in  a  fine  brocaded  gown! 

I   should  like  to  see  it  lying  in   a  heap  upon  the 

ground. 
All  the  pink  and  silver  crumpled  up  on  the  ground. 

I  would  be  the  pink  and  silver  as  I  ran  along  the 

paths, 

And  he  would  stumble  after, 
Bewildered  by  my  laughter. 
I  should  see  the  sun  flashing  from  his  sword  hilt  and 

the.  buckles  on  his  shoes. 
I  would  choose 

To  lead  him  in  a  maze  along  the  patterned  paths, 
A  bright   and  laughing  maze   for  my  heavy-booted 

lover, 

Till  he  caught  me  in  the  shade, 
And  the  buttons  of  his  waistcoat  bruised  my  body  as 

he  clasped  me, 
Aching,  melting,  unafraid. 

With  the  shadows  of  the  leaves  and  the  sundrops, 
And  the  plopping  of  the  waterdrops, 
All  about  us  in  the  open  afternoon  — 
I  am  very  like  to  swoon 
With  the  weight  of  this  brocade, 
For  the  sun  sifts  through  the  shade. 

Underneath  the  fallen  blossom 

In  my  bosom, 

Is  a  letter  I  have  hid. 

23 


It  was  brought  to  me  this  morning  by  a  rider  from 

the  Duke. 
"  Madam,    we    regret    to    inform    you    that    Lord 

HartweU 

Died  in  action  Thursday  sen'night." 
As  I  read  it  in  the  white,  morning  sunlight, 
The  letters  squirmed  like  snakes. 
"  Any  answer,  Madam,"  said  my  footman. 
"  No,"  I  told  him. 

"  See  that  the  messenger  takes  some  refreshment. 
"  No,  no  answer." 
And  I  walked  into  the  garden, 
Up  and  down  the  patterned  paths, 
In  my  stiff,  correct  brocade. 
The   blue  and  yellow   flowers  stood   up   proudly   in 

the  sun, 
Each  one. 
I  stood  upright  too, 
Held  rigid  to  the  pattern 
By  the  stiffness  of  my  gown. 
Up  and  down  I  walked, 
Up  and  down. 

In  a  month  he  would  have  been  my  husband. 

In  a  month,  here,  underneath  this  lime, 

We  would  have  broken  the  pattern; 

He  for  me,  and  I  for  him, 

He  as  Colonel,  I  as  lady, 

On  this  shady  seat. 

He  had  a  whim 

That  sunlight  carried  blessing. 

And  I  answered,  "  It  shall  be  as  you  have  said." 

Now  he  is  dead. 

In  Summer  and  in  Winter  I  shall  walk 
Up  and  down 

24 


The  patterned  garden  paths 

In  my  stiff,  brocaded  gown. 

The  squills  and  daffodils 

Will  give  place  to  pillared  roses,  and  to  asters,  and 

to  snow. 
I   shall  go 
Up  and  down, 
In  my  gown. 
Gorgeously  arrayed, 
Boned  and  stayed. 
And  the  softness  of  my  body  will  be  guarded  from 

embrace 

By  each  button,  hook,  and  lace. 
For  the  man  who  should  loose  me  is  dead, 
Fighting  with  the  Duke  in  Flanders, 
In  a  pattern  called  a  war. 
Christ!     What  are  patterns  for? 

The  Little  Review  Amy  Lowell 

ULYSSES  IN  ITHACA 

Ithaca,  Ithaca,  the  land  of  my  desire ! 

I'm  home  again  in  Ithaca,  beside  my  own  hearth-fire. 

Sweet  patient  eyes  have  welcomed  me,  all  tenderness 
and  truth, 

Wherein    I    see    kept    sacredly    the    visions    of    our 

youth  — 

Yet  sometimes,  even  as  I  hear  the  calm 
Deep  breathing  of  Penelope  at  rest 
Beside  me  —  cravingly  my  empty  palm 
Curves  to  the  memory  of  Calypso's  breast. 
Ah,  wild  immortal  mistress!     With  a  smile 
You  crowned  my  passion  as  a  goddess  can. 
I  would  not,  if  I  might,  regain  your  isle  — 
Nor  would  I  lose  remembrance,  being  man. 

25 


Ithaca,  Ithaca,  the  wind  among  the  trees, 

The  peasant  singing  at  his  toil,  the  murmuring  of 

bees, 
The  minstrel  plucking  at  the  harp   when  cups   are 

on  the  board, 

The  measure  of  the  martial  dance,  the  rhythmic  shield 
and  sword  — 

But  oh,  the  sword-song  broken  in  the  beat, 

The  sword-song  that  I  heard  by  Simois! 

The  high  fierce  cry  of  battle's  crimson  heat  — 

Whatever  else  I  hear,  I  lose  not  this. 

No,  nor  that  unimaginable  song 

When  through  my  straining  limbs  the  cord  cuts  far. 

Pallas,  I  thank  thee  that  the  bonds  were  strong  — 

Yet  was  the  siren's  music  worth  the  scar! 

Ithaca,  Ithaca,  and  peace  when  day  is  done; 
Life  like  a  weary  eagle  folding  wings  at  set  of  sun. 
The  round  of  homely  duties,  the  temperate  delight, 
The  simple  pleasure  of  the  day,  the  quiet   rest  at 
night  — 

But  I  have  known  the  thrill  of  danger's  face; 

Have  launched  my  spirit  as  a  spear  is  cast. 

The  world  and  hell  have  been  my  living-place, 

Who  choose  to  die  in  Ithaca  at  last. 

Odysseus  had  foregone  the  wanderer's  part  — 

But,  mighty  Zeus !  how  good  it  is  to  know 

That  I  have  held  a  goddess  to  my  heart 

And  fought  heroic  giants,  long  ago! 

The  Bellman  Amelia  Josephine  Burr 

SONG 

To-day  I  have  fled  from  the  Mountain;  and  never 
again 

26 


As  a  god  shall  I  roam  by  the  fountain  or  sing  in  the 

glen. 
The  new  gods  be  mute,  if  they  heard  me;  nor  glory 

nor  fire 
Hath  leapt  from  my  music  and  stirred  me,  so  broken 

my  lyre. 
I  cried  to  Latona  who  bore  me  —  she  answered  me 

not: 

Diana  hath  perished  before  me,  and  dark  is  the  spot 
Where  silent  the  laurel-maid  broodeth  forgiving  but 

cold  — 

0  Clyti'e,  once  so  forsaken  .  .  .  dost  weep  as  of  old? 

Yea,  Daphne  I  left  in  the  meadow,  unmoved  of  my 

pain. 
To  me  she  is  sunlight  and  shadow,  star-sweetness  and 

rain: 
(But,  all  through  the  years  when  I  loved  her,  who 

never  loved  me, 
Such,  then,  was  the  pain  my  forgetting  had  meted  to 

thee?) 

1  could  not   remember   thee  only,   with   her   at  my 

side  — 
Yet  I  might  have  pitied  thee  lonely,  and  made  for 

thy  pride 
Brief  kindness,  to  spare  thee  thy  sighing;  or  wreaths 

for  thy  brow  .  .  . 
O  Clyti'e,  Clyti'e,  Clyti'e,  where  art  tJiou  now? 

Boston  Transcript  Ruth  Guthrie  Harding 

THE  NEW  PLATONIST 
Circa    1640 

Our  loves  as  flowers  fall  to  dust; 
The  noblest  singing  hath  an  end; 

27 


No  man  to  his  own  soul  may  trust, 

Nor  to  the  kind  arms  of  his  friend; 
Yet  have  I  glimpsed  by  lonely  tree, 
Bright  baths  of  immortality. 

My  faultless  teachers  bid  me  fare 

The  cypress  path  of  blood  and  tears, 

Treading  the  thorny  wold  to  where 
The  painful  Cross  of  Christ  appears; 

'Twas  on  another,  sunnier  hill, 

I  met  you  first,  my  miracle. 

The  painted  windows  burn  and  flame 
Up  through  the  music-haunted  air; 

These  were  my  gods  —  and  then  you  came, 
With  flowers  crowned  and  sun-kissed  hair, 

Making  this  northern  river  seem 

Some  laughter-girdled  Grecian  stream. 

When  the  fierce  foeman  of  our  race 
Marshals  his  lords  of  lust  and  pride, 

You  spring  within  a  moment's  space, 
Full-armed  and  smiling  to  my  side. 

O  golden  heart !     The  love  you  gave  me, 

Alone  has  saved,  and  yet  will  save  me. 

Perchance  we  have  no  perfect  city 
Beyond  the  wrack  of  these  our  wars, 

Till  Death  alone  in  sacred  pity 

Wash  with  long  sleep  our  wounds  and  scars; 

So  much  the  more  I  praise  in  measure 

The  generous  gods  for  you,  my  treasure. 

The  New  Republic  Cuthbert  Wright 


28 


A  CYPRIAN  WOMAN:     GREEK  FOLK 
SONG 

Under  dusky  laurel  leaf, 

Scarlet  leaf  of  rose, 
I  lie  prone,  who  have  known 

All  a  woman  knows. 

Love  and  grief  and  motherhood, 

Fame  and  mirth  and  scorn, 
These  are  all  shall  befall 

Any  woman  born. 

Jewel-laden   are   my   hands, 

Tall  my  stone  above  — 
Do  not  weep  that  I  sleep, 

Who  was  wise  in  love: 

Where  I  walk  a  shadow  gray 

Through  gray  asphodel, 
I  am  glad,  who  have  had 

All  that  Life  could  tell. 

Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse 

Margaret   Widdemer 

FROM  A  CAR-WINDOW 

Pines,  and  a  blur  of  lithe  young  grasses; 

Gold  in  a  pool,  from  the  western  glow; 
Spread  of  wings  where  the  last  thrush  passes  — 

And  thoughts  of  you  as  the  sun  dips  low. 

Quiet  lane,  and  an  irised  meadow  .  .  . 

(How  many  summers  have  died  since  then?)  .  . 
I  wish  you  knew  how  the  deep'ning  shadow 

Lies  on  the  blue  and  green  again ! 

29 


Dusk,  and  the  sweep  of  field  and  hollow 
Etched  in  gray  when  a  star  appears: 

Sunset,  .  .  .  twilight,  .  .  .  and  dark  to  follow,  .  . 
And  thoughts  of  you  thro'  a  mist  of  tears. 

The  Smart  Set  Ruth  Guthrie  Harding 

WE  WHO  HAVE  LOVED 

We  who  have  loved,  alas!  may  not  be  friends, 

Too  faint,  or  yet  too  fierce  the  stifled  fire, — 

A  random  spark  —  and  lo !  our  dead  desire 

Leaps  into  flame,  as  though  to  make  amends 

For  chill,  blank  days,  and  with  strange  fury  rends 

The  dying  embers  of  Love's  funeral  pyre. 

Electric,  charged  anew,  the  living  wire 

A  burning  message  through  our  torpor  sends. 

Could  we  but  pledge  with  loyal  hearts  and  eyes 

A  friendship  worthy  of  the  fair,  full  past, 

Now  mutilate,  and  lost  beyond  recall, 

Then  might  a  Phoaiix  from  its  ashes  rise 

Fit  for  a  soul  flight;  but  we  find,  aghast, 

Love  must  be  nothing  if  not  all  in  all ! 

The  Smart  Set  Corinne  Roosevelt  Robinson 

CAVE  TALK 

What  are  you  doing  there  by  the  shore? 

—  I'm  pushing  out  my  boat. 
I  mean  to  follow  the  sun  across 

To  islands  far  remote. 
It  may  be  I  shall  find  a  land 

Where  fruits  and  spices  grow; 
Fairer  women,  stronger  men, 

And  mountains  topped  with  snow. 

30 


—  Nay,  go  not  forth  across  the  wave, 
Where  ghosts  and  monsters  be. 

What  fairer  folk  can  heart  desire 

Than  my  sweet  cubs  and  me? 
And  who  shall  bring  us  fish  and  flesh 

When  you  are  gone  away? 
Come,  spread  the  net  and  string  the  bow  — 

But  fare  not  far  astray ! 

What  are  you  scratching  there  on  the  rock? 

—  I'm  carving  pictures  here  — 
Feathered  bird  and  otter  furred, 

To  bide  for  many  a  year. 
When  a  thousand  moons  have  waxed  and  waned 

And  I  am  dust  and  smoke, 
Men  shall  behold  my  handiwork 

And  praise  the  master-stroke. 

—  O  sluggard,  leave  your  idle  ways  — 
Behold  our  bitter  dearth ! 

We  shiver  in  the  frosty  wind 

And  crouch  upon  the  earth. 
Go,  strip  the  otter  and  her  cubs 

For  coats  and  kirtles  fine, 
And  pluck  the  feathered  bird  to  strew 

A  bed  for  me  and  mine. 

What  are  you  doing  out  in  the  dark? 

—  I  count  the  stars  in  the  sky, 
And  wonder  if  they  are  the  souls 

Of  such  as  you  and  I; 
And  if  the  bear  and  the  lean  gray  wolf 

Have  souls  like  yours  and  mine, 
That  go  to  feed  the  milky  way 

Or  make  the  great  stars  shine. 


31 


—  O  dreamer,  what  are  the  stars  to  you 
And  the  souls  of  wolf  and  bear? 

The  gray  wolf  prowls  about  the  rock 

And  sniffs  upon  the  air; 
His  eyes  are  shining  in  the  dark 

Like  stars  above  the  sea! 
Build  high  the  fire  before  the  cave 

To  guard  my  cubs  and  me. 

What  do  you  see  that  stare  so  hard? 

—  A  face  all  smooth  and  white, 
And  breasts  and  shoulders  smooth  and  round 

And  soft  in  the  flickering  light. 
I  muse  how  wondrous  women  are 

And  how  unlike  to  men.  .  .  . 
I  saw  white  arms  in  the  sea  at  dawn  .  .  . 

Long  since  .  .  .  and  never  again.  .  .  . 

—  You  love  me  not,  O  stranger  man, 
Who  talk  of  women  and  men, 

Of  white  arms  in  the  sea  at  dawn  .  .  . 

You  love  me  never  again ! 
You  sit  and  dream  the  while  I  wait  — 

And  the  little  ones  all  asleep  .  .  . 
Oh,  if  you  love  me  a  little,  man, 

Kiss  me  ...  or  I  shall  weep ! 

Poetry :  A  Magazine  of  Verse      Joseph  Warren  Beach 
THE  CHINESE  NIGHTINGALE 

A   Song  in  Chinese   Tapestries 
Dedicated  to  8.  T.  F. 

"  How,  how,"  he  said.     "  Friend  Chang,"  I  said, 
"  San  Francisco  sleeps  as  the  dead  — 
Ended  license,  lust  and  play: 

32 


Why  do  you  iron  the  night  away? 
Your  big  clock  speaks  with  a  deadly  sound, 
With  a  tick  and  a  wail  till  dawn  comes  round. 
While  the  monster  shadows  glower  and  creep, 
What  can  be  better  for  man  than  sleep  ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you  a  secret,"  Chang  replied; 

"  My  breast  with  vision  is  satisfied, 

And  I  see  green  trees  and  fluttering  wings, 

And  my  deathless  bird  from  Shanghai  sings." 

Then  he  lit  five  fire-crackers  in  a  pan. 

"  Pop,  pop !  "  said  the  fire-crackers,  "  cra-cra-crack !  " 

He  lit  a  joss-stick  long  and  black. 

Then  the  proud  gray  joss  in  the  corner  stirred; 

On  his  wrist  appeared  a  gray  small  bird: 

And  this  was  the  song  of  the  gray  small  bird: 

"  Where  is  the  princess,  loved  forever, 
Who  made  Chang  first  of  the  kings  of  men  ?  " 

And  the  joss  in  the  corner  stirred  again; 

And  the  carved  dog,  curled  in  his  arms,  awoke, 

Barked  forth  a  smoke-cloud  that  whirled  and  broke. 

It  piled  in  a  maze  round  the  ironing-place, 

And  there  on  the  snowy  table  wide 

Stood  a  Chinese  lady  of  high  degree, 

With  a  scornful,  witching,  tea-rose  face  .  .  . 

Yet  she  put  away  all  form  and  pride, 

And  laid  her  glimmering  veil  aside 

With  a  childlike  smile  for  Chang  and  for  me. 

The  walls  fell  back,  night  was  aflower, 

The  table  gleamed  in  a  moonlit  bower, 

While  Chang,  with  a  countenance  carved  of  stone, 

Ironed  and  ironed,  all  alone. 

And  thus  she  sang  to  the  busy  man  Chang: 

"  Have  you  forgotten  .  .  . 


Deep  in  the  ages,  long,  long  ago, 
I  was  your  sweetheart,  there  on  the  sand  — 
Storm-worn  beach  of  the  Chinese  land? 
We  sold  our  grain  in  the  peacock  town 
Built  on  the  edge  of  the  sea-sands  brown  — 
Built  on  the  edge  of  the  sea-sands  brown  .  .  . 

"  When  all  the  world  was  drinking  blood 
From  the  skulls  of  men  and  bulls, 
And  all  the  world  had  swords  and  clubs  of  stone, 
We  drank  our  tea  in  China,  beneath  the  sacred  spice- 
trees, 

And  heard  the  curled  waves  of  the  harbor  moan. 
And  this  gray  bird,  in  Love's  first  spring, 
With  a  bright  bronze  breast  and  a  bronze-brown  wing, 
Captured  the  world  with  his  carolling. 
Do  you  remember,  ages  after, 
At  last  the  world  we  were  born  to  own? 
You  were  the  heir  of  the  yellow  throne  — 
The  world  was  the  field  of  the  Chinese  man 
And  we  were  the  pride  of  the  sons  of  Han. 
We  copied  deep  books,  and  we  carved  in  jade, 
And  wove  white  silks  in  the  mulberry  shade."  .  .  . 

"  I  remember,  I  remember 
That  Spring  came  on  forever, 
That  Spring  came  on  forever." 
Said  the  Chinese  nightingale. 

My  heart  was  filled  with  marvel  and  dream 
Though  I  saw  the  western  street-lamps  gleam, 
Though  dawn  was  bringing  the  western  day, 
Though  Chang  was  a  laundryman,  ironing  away  .  .  . 
Mingled  there,  with  the  streets  and  alleys, 
The  railroad-yard,  and  the  clock-tower  bright, 
Demon-clouds  crossed  ancient  valleys; 

34- 


Across  wide  lotos-ponds  of  light 
I  marked  a  giant  firefly's  flight. 

And  the  lady,  rosy-red, 

Opened  her  fan,  closed  her  fan, 

Stretched  her  hand  toward  Chang,  and  said: 

"Do  you  remember, 

Ages  after, 

Our  palace  of  heart-red  stone? 

Do  you  remember 

The  little  doll-faced  children 

With  their  lanterns  full  of  moon-fire, 

That  came  from  all  the  empire 

Honoring  the  throne  ? — 

The  loveliest  fete  and  carnival 

Our  world  had  ever  known? 

The  sages  sat  about  us 

With  their  heads  bowed  in  their  beards, 

With  proper  meditation  on  the  sight. 

Confucius  was  not  born; 

We  lived  in  those  great  days 

Confucius  later  said  were  lived  aright  .  .  . 

And  this  gray  bird,  on  that  day  of  Spring, 

With  a  bright-bronze  breast,  and  a  bronze-brown 

wing, 

Captured  the  world  with  his  carolling. 
Late  at  night  his  tune  was  spent. 
Peasants, 
Sages, 
Children, 
Homeward  went, 

And  then  the  bronze  bird  sang  for  you  and  me. 
We  walked  alone,  our  hearts  were  high  and  free. 
I  had  a  silvery  name,  I  had  a  silvery  name, 
I  had  a  silvery  name  —  do  you  remember 
The  name  you  cried  beside  the  tumbling  sea  ?  " 

35 


Chang  turned  not  to  the  lady  slim  — 
He  bent  to  his  work,  ironing  away ; 
But  she  was  arch  and  knowing  and  glowing. 
And  the  bird  on  his  shoulder  spoke  for  him. 

"  Darling  .  .  .  darling  .  .  .  darling  .  .  .  darling  .  .  ." 
Said  the  Chinese  nightingale. 

The  great  gray  joss  on  a  rustic  shelf, 

Rakish  and  shrewd,  with  his  collar  awry, 

Sang  impolitely,  as  though  by  himself, 

Drowning  with  his  bellowing  the  nightingale's  cry: 

"  Back  through  a  hundred,  hundred  years 

Hear  the  waves  as  thy  climb  the  piers, 

Hear  the  howl  of  the  silver  seas, 

Hear  the  thunder ! 

Hear  the  gongs  of  holy  China 

How  the  waves  and  tunes  combine 

In  a  rhythmic  clashing  wonder, 

Incantation  old  and  fine: 

'  Dragons,  dragons,  Chinese  dragons; 
Red  fire-crackers,  and  green  fire-crackers, 
And  dragons,  dragons,  Chinese  dragons.'  " 

Then  the  lady,  rosy-red, 

Turned  to  her  lover  Chang  and  said: 

"  Dare  you  forget  that  turquoise  dawn 

When  we  stood  on  our  mist-hung  velvet  lawn, 

And  worked  a  spell  this  great  joss  taught 

Till  a  God  of  the  Dragons  was  charmed  and  caught? 

From  the  flag  high  over  our  palace-home 

He  flew  to  our  feet  in  rainbow-foam  — 

A  king  of  beauty  and  tempest  and  thunder 

Panting  to  tear  our  sorrows  asunder, 

We  mounted  the  back  of  that  royal  slave 

With  thoughts  of  desire  that  were  noble  and  grave. 

36 


We  swam  down  the  shore  to  the  dragon-mountains, 

We  whirled  to  the  peaks  and  the  fiery  fountains. 

To  our  secret  ivory  house  we  were  borne. 

We  looked  down  the  wonderful  wing-filled  regions 

Where  the  dragons  darted  in  glimmering  legions. 

Right  by  my  breast  the  nightingale  sang; 

The  old  rhymes  rang  in  the  sunlit  mist 

That  we  this  hour  regain  — 

Song-fire  for  the  brain. 

When  my  hands  and  my  hair  and  my  feet  you  kissed, 

When  you  cried  for  your  heart's  new  pain, 

What  was  my  name  in  the  dragon-mist, 

In  the  rings  of  the  rainbowed  rain  ?  " 

"  Sorrow  and  love,  glory  and  love," 
Said  the  Chinese  nightingale. 
"  Sorrow  and  love,  glory  and  love," 
Said  the  Chinese  nightingale. 

And  now  the  joss  broke  in  with  his  song: 

"  Dying  ember,  bird  of  Chang, 

Soul  of  Chang,  do  you  remember  ?  — 

Ere  you  returned  to  the  shining  harbor 

There  were  pirates  by  ten  thousand 

Descended  on  the  town 

In  vessels  mountain-high  and  red  and  brown, 

Moon-ships  that  climbed  the  storms  and  cut  the  skies. 

On  their  prows  were  painted  terrible  bright  eyes. 

But  I  was  then  a  wizard  and  a  scholar  and  a  priest; 

I  stood  upon  the  sand; 

With  lifted  hand  I  looked  upon  them 

And  sunk  their  vessels  with  my  wizard  eyes, 

And  the  stately  lacquer-gate  made  safe  again. 

Deep,  deep  below  the  bay,  the  sea-weed  and  the  spray, 

Embalmed  in  amber  every  pirate  lies, 

Embalmed  in  amber  every  pirate  lies." 

37 


Then  this  did  the  noble  lady  say: 

"  Bird,  do  you  dream  of  our  home-coming  day 

When  you  flew  like  a  courier  on  before 

From  the  dragon-peak  to  our  palace-door, 

And  we  drove  the  steed  in  your  singing  path  — 

The  ramping  dragon  of  laughter  and  wrath; 

And  found  our  city  all  aglow, 

And  knighted  this  joss  that  decked  it  so? 

There  were  golden  fishes  in  the  purple  river 

And  silver  fishes  and  rainbow  fishes. 

There  were  golden  junks  in  the  laughing  river, 

And  silver  junks  and  rainbow  junks: 

There  were  golden  lilies  by  the  bay  and  river, 

And  silver-lilies  and  tiger-lilies, 

And  tinkling  wind-bells  in  the  gardens  of  the  town 

By  the  black  lacquer-gate 

Where  walked  in  state 

The  kind  king  Chang 

And  his  sweet-heart  mate  .  .  . 

With  his  flag-born  dragon 

And  his  crown  of  pearl  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  jade; 

And  his  nightingale  reigning  in  the  mulberry  shade, 

And  sailors  and  soldiers  on  the  sea-sands  brown, 

And  priests  who  bowed  them  down  to  your  song  — 

By  the  city  called  Han,  the  peacock  town, 

By  the  city  called  Han,  the  nightingale  town, 

The  nightingale  town." 

Then  sang  the  bird,  so  strangely  gay, 

Fluttering,  fluttering,  ghostly  and  gray, 

A  vague,  unravelling,  answering  tune, 

Like  a  long  unwinding  silk  cocoon; 

Sang  as  though  for  the  soul  of  him 

Who  ironed  away  in  that  bower  dim: 

"  I  have  forgotten 
Your  dragons  great, 

38 


Merry  and  mad  and  friendly  and  bold. 

Dim  is  your  proud  lost  palace-gate. 

I  vaguely  know 

There  were  heroes  of  old, 

Troubles  more  than  the  heart  could  hold, 

There  were  wolves  in  the  woods 

Yet  lambs  in  the  fold, 

Nests  in  the  top  of  the  almond  tree  .  .  . 

The  evergreen  tree  .  .  .  and  the  mulberry  tree  .  .  . 

Life  and  hurry  and  joy  forgotten 

Years  on  years  I  but  half-remember  .  .  . 

Man  is  a  torch,  then  ashes  soon, 

May  and  June,  then  dead  December, 

Dead  December,  then  again  June. 

Who  shall  end  my  dream's  confusion? 

Life  is  a  loom,  weaving  illusion  .  .  . 

I  remember,  I  remember 

There  were  ghostly  veils  and  laces  .  .  . 

In  the  shadowy,  bowery  places  .  .  . 

With  lovers'  ardent  faces 

Bending  to  one  another, 

Speaking  each  his  part. 

They  infinitely  echo 

In  the  red  cave  of  my  heart. 

'  Sweetheart,  sweetheart,  sweetheart ! ' 

They  said  to  one  another. 

They  spoke,  I  think,  of  perils  past. 

They  spoke,  I  think,  of  peace  at  last. 

One  thing  I  remember: 

Spring  came  on  forever, 

Spring  came  on  forever," 

Said  the  Chinese  nightingale. 

Poetry :  A  Magazine  of  Verse         Fachel  Lindsay 


SPRING 

Hey,  old  world,  old  lazy-bones,  wake  to  the  Spring- 
tune! 

The  music  of  the  spheres  is  quickened  to  a  j  ig  — 
Wobble  a  one-step  along  your  flashing  orbit,  with  the 
moon  for  your  light-tripping  partner! 

Shove  your  staid  bonnet  over  your  ear,  proper  old 

lady, 
And  sway  along  the  streets,  tipsy  with  the  Spring! 

Here  are  the  young  men,  gay  in  their  festive  lids, 
Carolling  vigorously  the  joy  within  them! 
What  matter  if  the  tune  slide  up  and  down? 
Spring  is  alive,  and  the  maidens  tremble  to  you,  as 
you  to  them. 

I  thrill  with  it  too  — 

I  long  to  hie  me  to  His  Honor  the  Mayor, 

And  slap  him  vigorously  on  the  back,  disturbing  the 

proper  set  of  his  derby, 
And  shout,  Wake  up,  old  chap,  it's  Spring  — 

Let  the  solemn  judge  shrug  off  the  ermine,  and  join 

the  revellers ! 
Let  the  pompous  financier  sing  a  naughty  trio  with 

his  wife  and  the  placid  chauffeur ! 
And  this  to  the  Police  Commissioner  — 
Furnish  the  foremost  pair  of  your  marching  guardians 

of  the  peace  with  mandolins  and  guitars, 
And  let  the  ranks  behind  decorously  do  the  toe  dance. 

Oh,  the  quickening  of  the  world ! 

The  push  of  the  agile  leaves,  the  fluttering  mating 

of  birds, 
The  delicious  unquiet  of  the  love-hungry  earth! 

40 


The  awakening  spirit  is  everywhere; 
Nothing  escapes;  nothing  can  resist  dancing  to  its 
absurd   and   delightful  melody. 

The  Masses  Clement  Wood 

NEEDLE  TRAVEL 

I  sit  at  home  and  sew, 

I  ply  my  needle  and  thread, 

But  the  trip   around  the  garment's  hem 

Is  not  the  path  I  tread; 

My  stitches  neat, 

With  their  rhythmic  beat, 

Keep  time  to  very  different  feet, 

On  a  different  journey  sped. 

Now,  glad  heart 

Tip-toe,  tip-toe, 

They  must  not  hear  you, 

They  must  not  know, 

They  must  not  follow  where  you  go. 

Bare,  brown  feet  on  the  dusty  road, 
Unbound  body  free  of  its  load, 
Limbs   that  need  no   stinging  goad 
Step,  step  out  on  the  dusty  road. 

Friends  to  greet  on  the  jolly  road, 

Lopeing  rabbit,  and  squatting  toad, 

Beetle,  trundling  along  with  your  load ; 

Hey,  little  friends-, 

Good-day,   good-morrow, 

You  see  me  to-day, 

You  forget  me  to-morrow. 

Time  to  chase  you  across  the  road, 
Lopeing  rabbit,  and  poke  you,  toad, 

41 


Upset  you,  beetle  with  your  load; 

Hey,  little  friends, 

Good-day. 

Bare,  brown  feet  in  the  shelving  pool, 
Unbound  body,  relaxed  and  cool, 
Limbs  lying  bare  and  beautiful; 
Hey,  green  pool, 
Good-day,  good-morrow, 
You  hold  me  to-day, 
You  forget  me  to-morrow. 

Time  to  float  in  you,  rapt  and  cool, 
Swim  the  rapids  above  you,  pool, 
Dive  in  your  waters  bountiful; 
Hey,  sweet  friend, 
Good-day. 

I  sit  at  home  and  sew, 

I  ply  my  needle  and  thread, 

But  the  trip  around  the  garment's  hem 

Is  not  the  path  I  tread. 

The  Masses  Margaret  French  Patton 


THE  FAIRY  FORT 

As  I  went  by  the  fairy  fort, 

I  heard  a  laughing  wee  voice  say, 

"  Whisht !     Be  these  humans  rale  at  all  ? 
I'll  not  believe  it,  nay !  " 

"  Aye ;  but  ye  see  the  crayturs  plain." 
"  But  seein'  niver  makes  it  true, 

No  more  than  not  to  see  be  proof. 
'Tis  what  they  think  and  do. 

42 


"  They  chase  unrale  things  all  day  long, — 
Money  and  aise  and  fame  and  power, — 

With  niver  time  to  pipe  and  dream, 
Or  gossip  with  a  flower. 

"  They  just  have  faith  in  what  they  see; 

And  they  be  blind  as  mid-day  owls, — 
Except  the  little  childher  dear, 

And  some  with  childher-sowls. 

"  Such  stupid  things  they  be,  and  quare ! 

I'll  not  believe  in  them,  not  I ! 
Come,  let  us  pipe  a  rale,  true  lilt, 

And  lave  the  crayturs  by !  " 

As  I  went  by  the  fairy  fort, 

I  heard  a  piping  sweet  and  small, — 

I  wonder,  are  the  Wee  Folk  real, 
Or  am  I  real  at  all? 

Tfa  Bellman  Abbie  Far-well  Brown 


SONG 

0 

Ebb  on  with  me  across  the  sunset  tide 

And  float  beyond  the  waters  of  the  world, 

The  light  of  evening  slipping  from  thy  side, 
Thy  softened  voice  in  waves  of  silence  furled. 

Flow  on  into  the  flaming  morning  wine, 

Drowning  the  land  in  color.     Then  on  high 

Rise  in  thy  candid  innocence  and  shine 
Like  to  a  poplar  straight  against  the  sky. 

Boston  Transcript  Edward  J.  O'Brien 


FOR  THE  DEDICATION  OF  A  TOY 
THEATRE 

You  banished  fairies  and  lean  outlawed  elves, 

Immured  in  dusty  books  on  closet  shelves; 

You  exorcised  young  spirits  that  have  lain, 

Cooped-up  with  cobwebs,  in  a  cynic's  brain; 

You  goblins  and  goodfellows,  mischief  mites 

That  drank  the  cream  and  teased  the  dog  o'  nights; 

You  godmothers ;  you  witches  on  old  brooms ; 

You  prancing  princes  (coal-black  hair,  and  plumes), 

Maidens,  magicians,  ogres,  Jack-in-vines, 

Con  your  enchantments,  furbish  up  your  lines, 

Make  ready  for  revival  —  not  so  fast !  — 

You  shall  be  summoned  when  the  play  is  cast. 

And  you,  grown  old  too  early,  you  whose  eyes 

Have  lost  the  wonder  of  the  truly  wise; 

You  scoffers  armed  with  "  science,"  and  a  laugh, 

Who  know  the  world  and  scorn  the  better  half; 

You,  also,  looking  backward  with  regret, 

Who  catch  a  glimmer  of  late  childhood  yet; 

And  you  who  never  wandered,  skimped  indeed, 

Beyond  the  borders  of  the  hard  world's  need; 

But  most,  you  children,  holding  in  your  hearts 

The  ways  of  highest  heaven,  best  of  arts, 

Be  seated  here.     Yon  curtain  is  the  mind: 

Let  logic  slip,  and  —  laughter  is  behind. 

Ay,  laughter,  and  brave  deeds,  and  hopes  come  true, — 

The  old  sweet  world  of  fancy,  made  for  you. 

But  mark  you,  disenchantment's  nigh  at  hand; 

Whoever  questions  will  not  understand. 

Look  to  't:  and,  as  you  love  us,  we  entreat, 

Put  off  your  cares ;  a  smile  will  buy  your  seat. 

Ho!  actors!  come,  make  ready  there  within:  — 

Have  up  the  curtain;  let  the  play  begin! 

Scribner's  Magazine  Benjamin  R.  C.  Low 

44 


THE  COURTYARD  PIGEONS 

Dear  birds,  that  flutter  happily 

Against  the  grey  stone  wall, 
That  hides  the  joyous  sun  from  me, 

Do  you  not  hear  my  call? 
Each  weary  day  when  you  go  past 

To  strut  and  perch  up  there, — 
Or   when  you  soar  away  so  fast, 

I  watch  you, —  and  I  care : 
For,  in  your  iridescent  flight, 

My  eyes  have  learned  to  see 
How,  in  this  strange  and  man-made  night, 

One  thing,  at  least,  goes  free. 
.     And  do  you  know  what  you  have  taught 

In  low  and  cooing  cries? 
Though  much  is  gone,  they  have  not  bought 

The  part  of  me  that  flies ! 
Boston   Transcript  Caroline   Giltinan 


THE  BARBERRY  BUSH 

Threading  the  wood,  if  I  might  see 
A  hamadryad  leave  her  tree, 
Or  Pan  with  dripping  honeycomb 
Luring  a  nymph  away  from  home, 
Eager  to  ask  some  friendly  faun 
What  way  Proserpina  had  gone, 
Or  catch  an  accent,  pungent,  wild, 
Of  garrulous  Hermes,  like  a  child 
I  grieved  to  miss  them.     Everything 
Was  hushed:  no  creature  cared  to  sing, 
Nor  memory  of  song  sufficed: 
The  earth  had  grown  unparadised. 


But  where  a  barberry  in  flower 

Had  tossed  against  the  sun  a  shower 

Of  pendent  blossoms,  golden  shapes 

Clustered  like  small  immortal  grapes 

Grown  for  a  baby  Bacchus,  all 

The  air  turned  rich  and  musical 

With  honeyed  little  changing  chimes 

Only  a  bee  makes  when  he  climbs 

A  bell-shaped  bloom,  and  being  stout, 

Shakes  pollen-dust  and  music  out. 

Whether  the  barberry  had  made 

A  compact  with  the  winds,  afraid 

To  lose  her  sweets  if  wind  should  blow, 

Or  what  she  offered,  can  I  know? 

But  all  her  essence  hovered  there 

Diffused  in  aromatic  air 

That  glittered  like  a  living  wine 

Her  soul  exhaled,  besieging  mine 

With  beauty,  making  me  at  home 

Within  the  windless  delicate  dome 

Of  vaulted  fragrance  over  her. 

Some  poignancy  of  mint  or  myrrh, 

Rosemary-whim,  lavender-lure, 

Or  balm  of  bruised  balsam  pure, 

Some  whiff  of  fern,  fennel,  or  rue, 

Tang  of  the  wild  grass  steeped  in  dew, 

Had  Hermes  flung  her  from  mid-flight 

As  benison  for  his  delight? 

For  incense-strange  and  spiced  was  she, 

A  pensioner  of  Araby, 

Dreaming  her  dream  of  winged  feet 

And  cloud-lost  laughter  bitter-sweet. 

Yet  not  for  Hermes  did  each  urn 

Of  hidden  honey  yield  in  turn 

Its  amber  to  the  pilgrim  bees. 

Their  god  is  Pan,  the  god  of  trees, 

46 


Who  pipes  for  them  all  blossom-news, 
And  knows  what  melody  to  use 
For  ripe  wild-grape  and  apple-tree, 
And  you  in  bloom,  O  Barberry ! 
Was  that  your  motif  that  I  heard 
His  veery  sing,  in  which  recurred 
Honey  and  spices,  grape-bloom  mist, 
Young  leaves  in  evening  amethyst, 
With  ringing  of  thin  topaz  bells 
Like  small  close-clustered  asphodels? 

So  sang  Pan's  veery,  so  sang  he, 
That  all  the  world  was  Thessaly, 
And  any  cedar  might  avail 
To  hold  an  answering  nightingale. 
The  mosses  by  the  oak-tree's  root 
Caressed  a  gleaming  naked  foot, 
But  quick  as  light  the  nymph  was  gone, 
I  glimpsed  the  brown  pursuing  faun 
And  heard  the  chiming  of  their  glee. 
Proserpina  eluded  me, 
But  from  your  blossoms  showered  down 
I  guessed  the  color  of  her  gown  — 
What  else  but  color  of  the  sun? 
And  singing  veery  there  was  none 
Until  into  my  mood  you  flowered, 
Illumining  the  wood  unbowered. 

Now  kindly  Pan  forevermore 

Be  mindful  of  you!     May  he  store 

Your  honey  in  Arcadian  j  ars ; 

Summon  back  Hermes  from  the  stars 

Into  your  zone  of  spicy  zest  — 

A  little  Orient  in  the  West ! 

Jeweled  with  bees,  gilded  with  bloom, 

You  shall  hold  court  within  your  room 

47 


If  once  he  pipe  beside  the  door, 
The  Master  Improvisator! 
Thither  may  he  resort,  content 
To  find  you  richly  redolent, 
And  make  you  music  all  your  own, 
So  river-sweet  in  reedy  tone, 
It  shall  inspire  at  evening  hush 
His  brown  immortal  veery-thrush. 

Century  Magazine  Grace  Hazard  Conkling 

GREEN  SYMPHONY 


The  glittering  leaves  of  the  rhododendrons 
Balance  and  vibrate  in  the  cool  air; 
While  in  the  sky  above  them 
White  clouds  chase  each  other. 

Like  scampering  rabbits, 

Flashes  of  sunlight  sweep  the  lawn; 

They  fling  in  passing 

Patterns  of  shadow, 

Golden  and  green. 

With  long  cascades  of  laughter, 

The  mating  birds  dart  and  swoop  to  the  turf: 

'Mid  their  mad  thrillings 

Glints  the  gay  sun  behind  the  trees. 

Down  there  are  deep  blue  lakes: 
Orange  blossom  droops  in  the  water. 

In  the  tower  of  the  winds, 

All  the  bells  are  set  adrift: 

Jingling 

For  the  dawn. 

48 


Thin  fluttering  streamers 

Of  breeze  lash  through  the  swaying  boughs, 

Palely  expectant 

The  earth  receives  the  slanting  rain. 

I  am  a  glittering  raindrop 

Hugged  close  by  the  cool  rhododendron. 

I  am  a  daisy  starring 

The  exquisite  curves  of  the  close-cropped  turf. 

The  glittering  leaves  of  the  rhododendron 
Are  shaken  like  blue  green  blades  of  glass, 
Flickering,   cracking,   falling : 
Splintering  in  a  million  fragments. 

The  wind  runs  laughing  up  the  slope 

Stripping  off  handfuls  of  wet  green  leaves, 

To  fling  in  people's  faces. 

Wallowing  on  the  daisy-powdered  turf, 

Clutching  at  the  sunlight, 

Cavorting  in  the  shadow. 

Like  baroque  pearls, 

Like  cloudy  emeralds, 

The  clouds  and  the  trees  clash  together; 

Whirling  and  swirling, 

In  the  tumult 

Of  the  spring, 

And  the  wind. 

ii 

The  trees  splash  the  sky  with  their  fingers, 
A  restless  green  rout  of  stars. 

With  whirling  movement 
They  swing  their  boughs 

49 


About  their  stems: 

Planes  on  planes  of  light  and  shadow 

Pass  among  them, 

Opening  fanlike  to  fall. 

The  trees  are  like  a  sea; 

Tossing; 

Trembling, 

Roaring, 

Wallowing, 

Darting  their  long  green  flickering  fronds  up  at  the 

sky, 

Subsiding, 
Spotted  with  white  blossom-spray. 

The  trees  are  roofs: 

Hollow  caverns  of  cool  blue  shadow 

Solemn  arches 

In  the  afternoons. 

The  whole  vast  horizon 

In  terrace  beyond  terrace, 

Pinnacle  above  pinnacle, 

Lifts  to  the  sky 

Serrated  ranks  of  green  on  green. 

They  caress  the  roofs  with  their  fingers, 

They  sprawl  about  the  river  to  look  into  it; 

Up  the  hill  they  come 

Gesticulating  challenge : 

They  cower  together 

In  dark  valleys; 

They  yearn  out  over  the  fields. 

Enamelled  domes 
Tumble  upon  the  grass, 
Crashing  in  ruin 
Quiet  at  last. 

50 


The  trees  lash  the  sky  with  their  leaves, 
Uneasily  shaking  their  dark  green  manes. 


in 

Far  let  the  voices  of  the  mad  wild  birds  be  calling 

me, 
I  will  abide  in  this  forest  of  pines. 

When  the  wind  blows 
Battling  through  the  forest, 
I  hear  it  distantly, 
Like  the  crash  of  a  perpetual  sea. 

When  the  rain  falls, 

I  watch  silver  spears  slanting  downwards 
From  the  pale  river-pools  of  sky, 
Enclosed  in  dark  fronds. 

When  the  sun  shines, 

I   weave  together  distant  branches  till  they  enclose 

mighty  circles, 

I  sway  to  the  movement  of  hooded  summits, 
I  swim  leisurely  in  deep  blue  seas  of  air. 

I  hug  the  smooth  bark  of  stately  red  pillars 

And  with  cones  carefully  scattered 

I  mark  the  progression  of  dark  dial-shadows 

Flung  diagonally  downwards  through  the  afternoon. 

This  turf  is  not  like  turf; 

It  is  a  smooth  dry  carpet  of  velvet, 

Embroidered   with   brown   patterns    of   needles    and 

cones. 

These  trees  are  not  like  trees: 
They  are  innumerable  feathery  pagoda-umbrellas, 

51 


Stiffly  ungracious  to  the  wind, 
Teetering  on  red-lacquered  stems. 

In  the  evening  I  listen  to  the  winds'  lisping, 

While   the   conflagrations   of  the   sunset   flicker   and 

clash  behind  me, 
Flamboyant  crenelations  of  glory  amid  the  charred 

ebony  boles. 

In  the  night  the  fiery  nightingales 
Shall  clash  and  trill  through  the  silence: 
Like  the  voices  of  mermaids  crying 
From  the  sea. 

Long  ago  has  the  moon  whelmed  this  uncompleted 

temple. 
Stars  swim  like  gold  fish  far  above  the  black  arches. 

Far  let  the  timid  feet  of  dawn  fly  to  catch  me: 
I  will  abide  in  this  forest  of  pines : 
For  I  have  unveiled  naked  beauty, 
And  the  things  that  she  whispered  to  me  in  the  dark 
ness, 
Are  buried  deep  in  my  heart. 

Now  let  the  black  tops  of  the  pine-trees  break  like  a 

spent  wave, 
Against  the  grey  sky: 
These  are  tombs  and  memorials  and  temples  and  altars 

sunkindled  for  me. 
The  Little  Review  John   Gould  Fletcher 

SERENADE 

The  Moon  puts  on  her  silver  veil 

And  shawl  of  lace:  and  with  far  lutes 

And  violins  in  many  a  dale 

The  thrushes  blow  their  woodland  flutes. 

52 


Oh,  and  with  many  a  ghostly  cheer, 
Under  the  moon  the  forest  heaves 

And  sways  with  ecstasy  to  hear 
The  eery  laughter  of  the  leaves. 

Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse      William  Griffith 


SEA  IRIS 

Weed,  moss-weed 
root  tangled  in  sand, 
sea  iris,  brittle  flower, 
one  petal  like  a  shell 
is  broken, 

and  you  print  a  shadow 
like  a  thin  twig. 

Fortunate  one, 

scented  and  stinging, 

rigid  myrrh-bud, 

camphor-flower, 

sweet  and  salt  —  you  are  wind 

in  our  nostrils. 


ir 


Do  the  murex-fishers 

drench  you  as  they  pass? 

Do  your  roots  drag  up  color 

from  the  sand? 

Have  they  slipped  gold  under  you; 

rivets  of  gold? 

Band  of  iris-flowers 

above  the  waves, 

you  are  painted  blue, 

53 


painted  like  a  fresh  prow 
stained  among  the  salt  weeds. 
The  Little  Review  H.  D. 


BIRCHES 

When  I  see  birches  bend  to  left  and  right 

Across  the  lines  of  straighter  darker  trees, 

I  like  to  think  some  boy's  been  swinging  them. 

But  swinging  doesn't  bend  them  down  to  stay. 

Ice-storms  do  that.     Often  you  must  have  seen  them 

Loaded  with  ice  a  sunny  winter  morning 

After  a  rain.     They  click  upon  themselves 

As  the  breeze  rises,  and  turn  many-colored 

As  the  stir  cracks  and  crazes  their  enamel. 

Soon  the  sun's  warmth  makes  them  shed  crystal  shells 

Shattering  and  avalanching  on  the  snow-crust  — 

Such  heaps  of  broken  glass  to  sweep  away 

You'd  think  the  inner  dome  of  heaven  had  fallen. 

They  are  dragged  to  the  withered  bracken  by  the 

load 
And  they  seem  not  to  break;  though  once  they  are 

bowed 

So  low  for  long  they  never  right  themselves: 

You  may  see  their  trunks  arching  in  the  woods 

Years  afterwards,  trailing  their  leaves  on  the  ground 

Like  girls  on  hands  and  knees  that  throw  their  hair 

Before  them  over  their  heads  to  dry  in  the  sun. 

But  I  was  going  to  say  when  truth  broke  in 

With  all  her  matter-of-fact  about  the  ice-storm, 

(Now  am  I  free  to  be  poetical?) 

I  should  prefer  to  have  some  boy  bend  them 

As  he  went  out  and  in  to  fetch  the  cows  — 


54 


Some  boy  too  far  from  town  to  learn  baseball, 

Whose  only  play  was  what  he  found  himself, 

Summer  or  winter,  and  could  play  alone. 

One  by  one  he  subdued  his  father's  trees 

By  riding  them  down  over  and  over  again 

Until  he  took  the  stiffness  out  of  them 

And  not  one  but  hung  limp,  not  one  was  left 

For  him  to  conquer.     He  learned  all  there  was 

To  learn  about  not  launching  out  too  soon 

And  so  not  carrying  the  tree  away 

Clear  to  the  ground.     He  always  kept  his  poise 

To  the  top  branches,  climbing  carefully 

With  the  same  pains  you  use  to  fill  a  cup 

Up  to  the  brim,  and  even  above  the  brim. 

Then  he  flung  outward,  feet  first,  with  a  swish, 

Kicking  his  way  down  through  the  air  to  the  ground. 

So  was  I  once  myself  a  swinger  of  birches. 

And  so  I  dream  of  going  back  to  be. 

It's  when  I'm  weary  of  considerations, 

And  life  is  too  much  like  a  pathless  wood 

Where  your  face  burns  and  tickles  with  the  cobwebs 

Broken  across  it,  and  one  eye  is  weeping 

From  a  twig's  having  lashed  across  it  open. 

I'd  like  to  get  away  from  earth  awhile 

And  then  come  back  to  it  and  begin  over. 

May  no  fate  willfully  misunderstand  me 

And  half  grant  what  I  wish  and  snatch  me  away 

Not  to  return.     Earth's  the  right  place  for  love: 

I  don't  know  where  it's  likely  to  go  better. 

I'd  like  to  go  by  climbing  a  birch  tree, 

And  climb  black  branches  up  a  snow-white  trunk 

Toward  heaven,  till  the  tree  could  bear  no  more, 

But  dipped  its  top  and  set  me  down  again. 

That  would  be  good  both  going  and  coming  back. 

One  could  do  worse  than  be  a  swinger  of  birches. 

Atlantic  Monthly  Robert  Frost 

55 


HILLS 

I  never  loved  your  plains !  — 

Your  gentle  valleys, 
Your  drowsy  country  lanes 

And  pleached  alleys. 

I  want  my  hills!  —  the  trail 
That  scorns  the  hollow. — 

Up,  up   the  ragged  shale 
Where  few  will  follow, 

Up,  over  wooded  crest 

And  mossy  bowlder 
With  strong  thigh,  heaving  chest, 

And  swinging  shoulder, 

So  let  me  hold  my  way, 

By  nothing  halted, 
Until,   at  close   of  day, 

I  stand,  exalted, 

High  on  my  hills  of  dream  — 
Dear  hills  that  know  me! 

And  then,  how  fair  will  seem 
The  lands  below  me, 

How  pure,  at  vesper-time, 

The  far  bells  chiming! 
God,  give  me  hills  to  climb, 

And  strength  for  climbing! 
Scribner's  Magazine  Arthur  Guiterman 


56 


THE  CLOUD 

I  am  a  cloud  in  the  heaven's  height, 

The  stars  are  lit  for  my  delight, 

Tireless  and  changeful,  swift  and  free, 

I  cast  my  shadow  on  hill  and  sea  — 

But  why  do  the  pines  on  the  mountain's  crest 

Call  to  me  always,  "  Rest,  rest "  ? 

I  throw  my  mantle  over  the  moon 
And  I  blind  the  sun  on  his  throne  at  noon, 
Nothing  can  tame  me,  nothing  can  bind, 
I  am  a  child  of  the  heartless  wind  — 
But  oh  the  pines  on  the  mountain's  crest 
Whispering  always,  "  Rest,  rest." 

Harper's  Magazine  Sara  Teasdale 

THE  MIRAGE 

Across  the  Bay  are  low-lying  cliffs, 

Where  stand  fishermen's  cottages: 

I  can  barely  distinguish  them  with  the  naked  eye. 

But  to-day  the  cliffs  are  lifted,  escarpt, 

Perpendicular,   mysterious,   inaccessible, 

And  those  sordid  dwellings  have  become 

The  magnificent  fortified  castles  of  Sea-kings. 

North  American  Review       Nathan  Haskell  Dole 


FIRE  CASTLES 

Past  falling  rain  and  every  hill  in  mist 
Makes  even  my  very  saddest  thoughts  grow  sadder, 
And  every  sad  thought  lengthens  my  long  list, 
As,  moaning  over  old  things  that  make  me  madder, 

57 


I  sit  and  sulk  over  some  unkind  word 

And  weep  as  if  I  had  not  wept  before, 

And  think  of  words  about  me  I  have  heard, 

And  with  old  thoughts  grieve  over  them  some  more. 

But  soon,  if  I  get  up,  or  sit  and  gaze, 

Telling  myself  stories  of  joyous  thought 

Before  the  warm  and  cheery,  singing  blaze, 

Now  all  my  bad  thoughts  in  a  trap  are  caught; 

And  if  I  gaze  at  castles  in  the  fire, 

Then  all  the  while  to  gladness  I  grow  nigher. 

The  Little  Review  Arvia  MacKaye 


VISTAS 

As  I  walked  through  the  dream-peopled  streets 
Of  the  wind-rustling,  elm-shaded  city 

Where  all  of  the  houses  were  friends 
And  the  trees  were  all  lovers  of  her, 

The  spell  of  its  old  enchantment 

Was  woven  again  to  subdue  me 

With  magic  of  flickering  shadows, 
Blown  branches  and  leafy  stir. 

Street  after  street,  as  I  passed, 
Lured  me  and  beckoned  me  onward, 
Releasing  like  flowery  fragrance 

Remembrance  and  hope  on  the  air. 
At  the  end  of  each  breeze-blurred  vista 
She  seemed  to  be  watching  and  waiting, 
With  leaf  shadows  over  her  gown 

And  sunshine  gilding  her  hair. 

For  there  was  a  dream  that  the  kind  God 
Withheld,  while  granting  us  many. — 
But  surely,  I  think,  we  shall  come 

58 


Sometime,  at  the  last,  she  and  I, 
To  the  heaven  He  keeps  for  all  tired  souls, 
The  quiet  suburban  gardens 
Where  He  Himself  walks  in  the  evening 

Beneath  the  rose-dropping  sky, 
And  watches  the  balancing  elm-trees 
With  a  sob  of  delight  for  their  beauty, 
And  hears  through  their  lofty  arches 

The  night  breeze  ruffle  by. 

The  Smart  Set  Odell  Shepard 

SUN-BROWNED  WITH  TOIL 

Sun-browned  and  worn  with  toil,  he  leaned  awhile 

On  his  bright  spade,  and  looked  into  the  West. 

His  eyes  were  soft  with  thought.     St.  Francis  came, 

Noiseless,  and  stood  beside,  then  gently  said: 

"  Brother,  what  seest  thou?  "     Deep  he  drew  breath 

Of  long  contentment.     "  When  yon  evening  light 

Touches  my  cottage  roof-tree  —  lo,  see  there 

How  flames  the  thatch  beneath  the  glowing  rays  — 

I  love  to  look  across  the  reddened  world 

And  thank  my  God,  Who  keeps  me ;  love  to  muse 

And  through  the  circling  hours  and  changing  years, 

As  days  tread  slow  on  days,  He  works  for  me. 

I  see  yon  shaggy  hillside,  grown  with  vines; 

His  own  all-sedulous  Hand  doth  mold  each  bud 

And  twine  each  tendril  round  its  destined  stay. 

How  soft  the  pastures  roll!     He  greens  them  o'er 

With  countless  grass  tips,  each  His  utter  care, 

As  are  the  swinging  stars.     The  chestnuts  spread 

Wide-armed  and  dark  —  He  builds  their  buttressed 

limbs 

Against  the  storm,  and  when  they  groan  and  sway 
They  call  to  Him  for  succor.     And  the  birds! 

59 


How  far  and  free  they  ride  the  weightless  air, 

And  fall  and  soar  and  circle  —  ah,  they  feel 

In  swiftest  onrush  of  their  dizzy  flight 

His  Hand  beneath  them.     And  yon  waving  wheat 

That  ripples  all  its  shining  blades  with  joy 

Beneath  the  summer's  winds  —  He  bids  it  grow, 

It,  and  the  clustered  vines,  to  furnish  forth 

His  Holy  Table!     So  mine  evening  thoughts 

Run  on  and  on,  thus  mingled;  all  the  world 

Speaking  of  God,  my  Lord,  and  when  the  West 

Flames  like  a  chalice,  and  its  flooding  rays 

Frame  the  fair  sun,  poised  ere  he  veils  his  light, 

Methinks  the  whole  vast  world  is  figured  there. 

God  is  its  Sun !  and  it  but  gleams  to  show 

In  myriad  forms,  the  One  Eternal  Fair 

That  bade  it  be."     He  paused,  and  could  no  more. 

Then  Francis  prayed,  his  eyes  besieging  heaven. 

"  O  God,  My  Father,  I  do  give  Thee  praise, 

That  Thou  hast  spoken  to  these  simple  hearts, 

What  pride  and  troubled  learning  faint  to  know. 

They  search  the  spheres  for  light:  this  man  of  toil, 

Sees  Thee,  O  Light,  in  all  Thy  common  world ! 

And  where  Thy  love  hath  placed  him,  finds  his  peace." 

Catholic  World  Edward  F.  Garesche,  S.  J. 


JULY 

It  must  be  summer:  but  of  such  a  calm 

Doth  Winter  weave  his  dream  of  cloaking  snow. 

Of  attar'd  airs  that  are,  no  air's  ablow; 

And  yet  from  somewhere,  as  it  were  a  balm, 

Blows  incense  slowly.     Slowly,  like  a  psalm 

Or  slowly-said  responses,  slips  the  stream: 

A  slim  and  silvery  minnow  does  it  seem, 

'Mid  grasses  grasping,  in  the  Meadow's  palm. 

60 


No  bird  need  sing  to-day,  and  no  bird  sings: 

This  stillness  is  enough:  it  is  to  me 

The  muted  prelude  to  Eternity; 

A  summing  up  of  hushed  and  ended  things ; 

The  balancing  of  Nature's  books,  who  creeps 

Close  to  a  stone,  and  in  her  own  shade  sleeps. 

The  Midland,  A  Magazine 
of  the  Middle  West 

Mahlon  Leonard  Fisher 

THE  ROAD  NOT  TAKEN 

Two  roads  diverged  in  a  yellow  wood, 
And  sorry  I  could  not  travel  both 
And  be  one  traveler,  long  I  stood 
And  looked  down  one  as  far  as  I  could 
To  where  it  bent  in  the  undergrowth ; 

Then  took  the  other,  as  just  as  fair, 
And  having  perhaps  the  better  claim 
Because  it  was  grassy  and  wanted  wear, 
Though  as  for  that  the  passing  there 
Had  worn  them  really  about  the  same, 

And  both  that  morning  equally  lay 
In  leaves  no  step  had  trodden  black. 
Oh,  I  marked  the  first  for  another  day! 
Yet  knowing  how  way  leads  on  to  way 
I  doubted  if  I  should  ever  come  back. 

I  shall  be  telling  this  with  a  sigh 
Somewhere  ages  and  ages  hence: 
Two  roads  diverged  in  a  wood,  and  I, 
I  took  the  one  less  traveled  by, 
And  that  has  made  all  the  difference. 

Atlantic  Monthly  Robert  Frost 

61 


HYMN  TO  THE  DAIRYMAIDS  ON  BEACON 
STREET 

Sweetly  solemn  see  them  stand, 
Spinning  churns  on  either  hand, 
Neatly  capped  and  aproned  white 
Airy  fairy  dairy  sight. 
Jersey  priestesses  they  seem 
Miracling  milk  to  cream. 

Cream  solidifies  to  cheese 

By  Pasteural  mysteries, 

And  they  give,  within  their  shrine, 

Their  communion  in  kine. 

Incantations  pure  they  mutter 
O'er  the  golden  minted  butter 
And  (no  layman  hand  can  pen  it) 
See  them  gloat  above  their  rennet. 

By  that  hillside  window  pane 
Rugged  teamsters  draw  the  rein. 
Doff  the  battered  hat  and  bow 
To  these  acolytes  of  cow. 

Genuflect,  ye  passersby! 
Muse  upon  their  ritual  high  — 
Milk  to  cream,  yea,  cream  to  cheese 
White  lacteal  mysteries ! 
Let  adorers  sing  the  word 
Of  the  smoothly  flowing  curd. 
Yea,  we  sing  with  bells  and  fife 
This  is  the  whey,  this  is  the  Life. 

Boston  Transcript  Christopher  Morley 


62 


PASSAGES  FROM  A  POEM :     THE 
NEW  WORLD 


Celia  was  laughing.     Hopefully  I  said: 

"  How  shall  this  beauty  that  we  share, 

This  love,  remain  aware 

Beyond  our  happy  breathing  of  the  air? 

How  shall  it  be  fulfilled  and  perfected? 

If  you  were  dead 

How  then  should  I  be  comforted  ?  " 

.  But  Celia  knew  instead : 
"  He  who  takes  comfort  here,  shall  find  it  there." 

A  halo  gathered  round  her  hair. 
I  looked  and  saw  her  wisdom  bare 
The  living  bosom  of  the  countless  dead  .  .  . 

.  .  .  And  there 
I  laid  my  head. 

Again,  when  Celia  laughed,  I  doubted  her  and  said: 
"  Life  must  be  led 
In  many  ways  more  difficult  to  see 
Than  this  immediate  way 
For  you  and  me. 

We  stand  together  on  our  lake's  edge,  and  the  mystery 
Of  love  has  made  us  one,  as  day  is  made  of  night  and 

night  of  day. 
Aware  of  one  identity 
Within  each  other,  we  can  say : 
'  I  shall  be  everything  you  are/  .  .  . 
We  are  uplifted  till  we  touch  a  star. 
We  know  that  overhead 
Is  nothing  more  austere,  more  starry,  or  more  deep  to 

understand 
Than  is  our  union,  human  hand  in  hand. 

63 


.  .  .  But  over  our  lake  come  strangers — a  crowded 

launch,  a  lonely  sailing  boy. 
A  mile  away  a  train  bends  by.     In  every  car 
Strangers  are  travelling,  each  with  particular 
And  unkind  preference  like  ours,  with  privacy 
Of  understanding,  with  especial  joy 
Like  ours.     Celia,  Celia,  why  should  there  be 
Distrust  between  ourselves  and  them,  disunity  ? 

.  .  .  How  careful  we  have  been 
To  trim  this  little  circle  that  we  tread, 
To  set  a  bar 

To  strangers  and  forbid  them!     Are  they  not  as  we, 
Our  very  likeness  and  our  nearest  kin? 
How  can  we  shut  them  out  and  let  stars  in?  " 

She  looked  along  the  lake.     And  when  I  heard  her 

speak, 
The  sun  fell  on  the  boy's  white  sail  and  her  white 

cheek. 
"  I  touch  them  all  through  you,"  she  said.     "  I  cannot 

know  them  now 

Deeply  and  truly  as  my  very  own,  except  through  you, 
Except  through  one  or  two 
Interpreters. 
But  not  a  moment  stirs 

Here  between  us,  binding  and  interweaving  us, 
That  does  not  bind  these  others  to  our  care." 

The  sunlight  fell  in  glory  on  her  hair  .  .  . 
And  then  said  Celia,  radiant,  when  I  held  her  near : 
"  They  who  find  beauty  who  there,  shall  find  it  here." 

And  on  her  brow, 
When  I  heard  Celia  speak, 
Cities  were  populous 

With  peace  and  oceans  echoed  glories  in  her  ear 
And  from  her  risen  thought 
Her  lips  had  brought, 

64 


As  from  some  peak 

Down  through  the  clouds,  a  mountain-air 

To  guide  the  lonely  and  uplift  the  weak. 

"  Record  it  all,"  she  told  me,  "  more  than  merely 

this, 
More  than  the  shine  of  sunset  on  our  heads,  more  than 

a  kiss, 

More  than  our  rapt  agreement  and  delight 
Watching  the  mountain  mingle  with  the  night.  .  .  . 
Tell  that  the  love  of  the  two  incurs 
The  love  of  multitudes,  makes  way 
And  welcome  for  them,  as  a  solitary  star 
Brings  on  the  great  array. 
Go  make  a  lovers'  calendar," 
She  said,  "  for  every  day." 

And  when  the  sun  had  put  away 
His  dazzle,  over  the  shadowy  firs 
The  solitary  star  came  out.  ...  So  on  some  night 
To  eyes  of  youth  shall  come  my  light 
And  hers. 


"A  stranger  might  be  God/'  the  Hindus  cry. 
But  Celia  says,  importunate : 
"  The  stranger  must  be  God,  and  you  and  I." 

ni 

Once  in  a  smoking-car  I  saw  a  scene 
That  made  my  blood  stand  still.  .  .  . 
While  the  sun  smouldered  in  a  great  ravine, 
And  I,  with  elbow  on  the  window-sill, 
Was  watching  the  dim  ember  of  the  west, 
Half-heard,  but  poignant  as  a  bell 
For  fire,  there  came  a  moan;  the  voice  of  one  in  hell. 

65 


I  turned.     Across  the  car  were  two  young  men, 
Yet  hardly  more  than  boys, 
French  by  their  look,  and  brothers, 
And  one  was  moaning  on  the  other's  breast. 
His  face  was  hid  away.     I  could  not  tell 
What  words  he  said,  half  English  and  half  French. 

I  only  knew 
Both  men  were  suffering,  not  one  but  two. 

And  then  that  face  came  into  view, 
Gaunt  and  unshaved,  with  shadows  and  wild  eyes, 
A  face  of  madness  and  of  desolation.     And  his  cries, 
For  all  his  mate  could  do, 
Rang  out,  a  shrill  and  savage  noise, 
And  tears  ran  down  the  stubble  of  his  cheek. 

The  other  face  was  younger,  clean  and  sad. 
With  the  manful,  stricken  beauty  of  a  lad 
Who  had  intended  always  to  be  glad. 

.  .  .  The  touch  of  his  compassion,  like  a  mother's, 
Pitied  the  madman,  soothed  him  and  caressed. 
And  then  I  heard  him  speak: 
In  a  low  voice:     "  MON  FRERE,  MON  FRERE  ! 
CALME-TOI  !     Right  here's  your  place." 
And,  opening  his  coat,  he  pressed 
Upon  his  heart  the  wanderer's  face 
And  smoothed  the  tangled  hair. 

After  a  moment  peaceful  there 
The  maniac  screamed  —  struck  out  and  fell 
Across  his  brother's  arm.     Love  could  not  quell 
His  anger.     Wrists  together  high  in  air 
He  rose  and  with  a  yell 
Brought   down    his    handcuffs    toward   his    brother's 

face  — 

But  his  hands  were  pinned  below  his  waist. 
By  a  burly,  silent  sheriff,  and  some  hideous  thing  was 
bound, 

66 


Around  his  arms  and  feet* 

And  he  was  laid  upon  the  narrow  seat. 

And  then  that  sound, 

That  moan 

Of  one  forsaken  and  alone! 

"  Seigneur !  le  createur  du  ciel  et  de  la  terre ! 

Forgotten  me,  forgotten  me !  " 

And  when  the  voice  grew  weak 
The  brother  leaned  again,  embraced 
The  huddled  body.     But  a  shriek 
Repulsed  him :     "  Non !     Detache-moi !     I  don't  care 
For  you.     Non!     Tu  es  l'homme  qui  m'a  trahi! 
Non !  Tu  n'es  pas  mon  f rere." 

But  as  often  as  that  stricken  mind  would  fill 
With  the  great  anguish  and  the  rush  of  hate, 
The  boy,  his  young  eyes  older,  older, 
Would  curve  his  shoulder 
To  the  other's  pain  and  hold  that  haunted  face  close 

to  his  face 

And  say :     "  Oh,  wait ! 
You  will  know  me  better  by  and  by. 
Mon  pauvre  petit,  be  still  — 
Right  here's  your  place." 

The  seeing  gleam,  the  blinded  stare, 
Theory: 
"  Non,  tu  n'es  pas  mon  f  rere !  " 

I  saw  myself,  myself  as  blind 
As  he.     For  something  smothers 
My  reason.     And  I  do  not  know  my  brothers  .  .  . 
But  every  day  declare : 
"  Non,  tu  n'es  pas  mon  frere !  " 

IV 

I  know  a  fellow  in  a  steel-mill  who,  intent 
Upon  his  labors  and  his  happiness,  had  meant 

67 


In  his  own  wisdom  to  be  blest, 

Had  made  his  own  unaided  way 

To  schooling,  opportunity, 

Success.     And  then  he  loved  and  married.     And  his 

bride, 

After  a  brief  year,  died. 
I  went  to  him  to  see 
If  I  might  comfort  him.     The  comfort  came  to  me. 

"  David,"  I  said,  "  under  the  temporary  ache 
There  is  unwonted  nearness  with  the  dead." 
I  felt  his  two  hands  take 
The  sentence  from  me  with  a  grip 
Forged  in  the  mills.     He  told  me  that  his.  tears  were 

shed 

Before  her  breath  went.     After  that,  instead 
Of  grief,  she  came  herself.     He  felt  her  slip 
Into  his  being  like  a  miracle,  her  lip 
Whispering  on  his,  to  slake 
His  need  of  her. — "  And  in  the  night  I  wake 
With  wonder  and  I  find  my  bride 
And  her  embrace  there  in  our  bed, 
Within  my  very  being !  —  not  outside. 

..."  We  have  each  other  more,  much  more," 
He  said,  "  now  than  before. 
This  very  moment  while  I  shake 
Your  hand,  my  friend, 
Not  only  I, 
But  she  is  touching  you  and  laughs  with  me  because  I 

cried 

For  her  .  .  .  People  would  think  me  crazy  if  I  told. 
But  something  in  what  you  said  made  me  bold 
To  let  you  meet  my  bride !  " 

It  was  not  madness.     David's  eye 
Was  clear  and  open-seeing. 

68 


His  life 

Had  faced  in  death  and  understood  in  his  young  wife, 

As  I  when  Celia  died, 

The  secret  of  God's  being. 


Celia,  perhaps  a  few 
Whom  I  shall  tell  of  you 
Will  see  with  me  your  beauty  who  are  dead, 
Will  hear  with  me  your  voice  and  what  it  said ! 

Poetry :  A  Magazine  of  Verse          Witter  Bynner 


THE  MAKER  OF  IMAGES 

Sunbeam  and  storm-cloud  over  the  wonderful 
Sea,  whereon  ships  labor  and  mariners 

Hope  and  despair,  while  safe  in  haven 
Weavers  of  dream  by  the  wayside  wander 

Whose  hands  know  not  the  oar,  nor  their  eyes  endure 
Insurgent  ocean.     Nevertheless,  they  live 
Not  vainly,  if  at  heart  their  dreams  be 
One  with  the  heart  of  the  world  forever. 

Long  since,  an  unknown  Maker  of  Images 

Walked  where  the  shore  looms  high  before  Pergamon 

Fronting  the  sea.     And  while  he  dreamed  there, 
Suddenly  over  the  bright  horizon 

Fell  darkness.     Birds  cried  out,  flying  heavily 
Down  the  wind.     Blue  gloom,  swallowing  sail  by  sail, 

69 


Swung  landward.     The  tall  meadow-grasses 
Swayed  like  the  mane  of  a  beast  in  anger 

Arousing.  .  .  .  Then  one  glare,  and  a  thunderbolt 
Cracked,  and  the  world  went  out  into  colorless 

Ruin  of  rain,  and  sky  and  headland 
Blent  with  the  spray  of  the  plunging  ocean. 

Meanwhile,  amazed,  the  Maker  of  Images 
Clung  to  the  cliff.     Then  rose;  and  at  eventide, 
Through  dew-sweet  fields  and  rain-washed  wood 
land 
Wandered,  as  one  having  seen  a  vision, 

Homeward,  without  speech.     And  for  many  days 
Carved  on  the  new-raised  altar  of  Pergamon 
What  he  had  seen:  yet  not  the  unmeaning 
Welter  of  cloud  over  storm-torn  water, 

But  warfare  of  white  gods,  the  Olympians, 
Against  the  Earth-Born:  Zeus,  thunder-panoplied, 

Pallas,  and  Ares,  and  Poseidon 
Ranging  the  van  of  his  windy  legions, — 

While  underneath,  vain  Giants  in  agony 
Piled  mountains;  and  alone,  understanding  all, 

Foam-bosomed  Aphrodite  smiled  down 
Quietly,  out  of  the  heights  above  them. 

Storms  pass.     Untold  suns,  glooms  beyond  number 
ing, 
Vanish.     The  unchanging  pageant  elaborates, 

And  kingdoms  fail,  and  strange  commanders 
Govern  imperial  generations 

Of  momentary  dust;  and  the  pyramid 
Follows  the  prince  where,  emulous,  tremulous, 


70 


Like  motes  along  the  moonbeams  dancing 
Into  the  dark,  the  Enchanter  changes 

Men,  and  the  deeds  of  men.     Yet  through  centuries 
Gone,  since  before  that  altar,  adoringly 

With  arms  upraised,  the  Pergamseans 
Gazed,  and  grew  stronger  of  heart  beholding, 

Their  dreams   remain.        Still,   still,   as   a  thousand 

years 
Embody  June,  so  now  and  forevermore 

New  lamps,  new  eyes,  one  light  undying 
Hold,  and  reveal  in  a  thousand  rainbows. 

All  gods  of  all  times  fight  for  us,  laugh  with  us; 
Forgotten  angels  cool  our  delirium; 

Vague  monsters  from  primeval  caverns 
Widen  the  wondering  eyes  of  children; 

And  knights  of  old,  high-hearted  adventurers, 
Ride  errant  with  us,  making  a  tournament 
Of  toil;  and  new-hung  moons  remember 
Passion  and  pang  of  imagined  lovers 

Whose  perfumed  souls  in  blossomy  silences 
Hunger,  forlorn:  Adonis,  Endymion, 

Brynhild,  Elaine,  Ysolde,  Helen, — 
Names  like  the  touch  of  lips  that  loved  them, — 

And  brazen-handed  heroes  who  sang  as  they 
Charged  home  against  impregnable  destiny 

Clang  trumpets  in  our  wars ;  and  saints  leave 
Lilies  of  peace  by  the  lonely  highway. 

Pray  therefore  that,  ourselves  being  treasurers 
Of  beauty  brought  from  Eden,  ephemeral 

71 


Husbands  of  ageless  Dawn,  our  dreams  too 
Mould  for  a  moment  the  gold  immortal 

Not  fouled  by  unclean  hands,  nor  unworthily 
Shapen  for  gain ;  nor  scorned,  while  idolaters 

Of  deities   unborn  unwisely 
Gather  barbarian  toys  of  tinsel. 

To  flatter  purblind  eyes.     But  remembering 
The  beautiful  old  gods,  and  the  champions 
Of  storied  wars,  and  sylvan  horn-calls 
Waking  mysterious  elfin  laughter, — 

We,  in  our  own  hour  Makers  of  Images, 
Charm  storm  and  day-dream  into  such  harmony 

As  men  of  deeds,  beholding,  long  for, 
Forging  the  world  into  forms  of  heaven. 

The  Yale  Review  Brian  Hooker 


THE  HOME  OF  HORACE 

1912 

The  cold  Licenza  through  the  valley  brawls ; 

Unchanged  the  forest  rustles  on  the  hill; 
The  ploughman  to  his  lagging  oxen  calls 

Amid  the  selfsame  vines ;  and  murmuring  still 
Adown  the  hollow  rock  the  fountain  falls 

To  yield  the  wandering  herd  its  welcome  chill. 
Each  sound  to  him  so  long  familiar  grown 
Even  now  the  poet's  loving  ear  had  known, 

Could  he  but  stand  again  within  these  walls 
Which  once  the  kindly  gods  made  all  his  own. 


72 


Poor  poet !  who  so  dreaded  lest  his  book 

Might  come  to  be  at  last  a  schoolroom  bore. 
How  would  he  mourn  to  see  his  cherished  nook 

Laid  bare,  a  prey  for  our  myopic  lore! 
Sweet  peace  has  fled,  and  prying  eyes  may  look 

On  crumbling  step  and  tessellated  floor. 
Stripped  to  the  garish  light  of  common  day, 
The  sheltering  mould  of  ages  torn  away, 

Now  lie  the  little  rooms,  where  once  he  took 
Long  draughts  of  ease  and  let  his  fancy  stray. 

Languid  Maecenas  left  the  roaring  town 

To  sip  the  Sabine  in  this  friendly  vale; 
Here  Vergil,  white  of  soul,  oft  sat  him  down 

To  hear  old  Cervius  spin  his  moral  tale; 
Pert  Davus,  heedless  of  a  growing  frown, 

Plied  here  his  argument  without  avail; 
While  each  new  moon  would  rustic  Phidyle  stand 
To  offer  holy  meal  with  pious  hand, 

Pleasing  her  tiny  gods  with  rosemary  crown 
To  bless  the  increase  of  her  master's  land. 

O !  that  far  hence,  in  some  dim  Sabine  glade, 
These  stones,  half  buried  in  the  kindly  loam, — 

Unnoted,  undiscovered,  unsurveyed, — 

Might  but  afford  the  owl  a  darkling  home ! 

There  might  the  thrush  still  warble  undismayed, 
The  timid  woodland  creatures  boldly  roam 

Through  broken  arch  and  plundered  portico 

Which  heard  the  poet's  footstep  long  ago; 

That  so  no  pang  might  touch  thee,  gentle  Shade, 
This  worse  than  ruined  house  of  thine  to  know! 

Scribner's  Magazine  George  Meason  Whicker 

73 


SISTER  MARY  VERONICA 

The  soft-shod  nuns  have  laid  the  last  fold  straight 
In  her  last  raiment,  telling  their  slow  beads 
With  measured  memories  of  her  faithful  deeds, 
And  prayers  for  her  soul's  sake,  importunate. 
Now  they  are  gone,  gray  shadows,  to  the  call 
Of  a  far  vesper  bell;  and  foot  and  head, 

Two  pallid  tapers  tall  — 

Glimmering,  gaunt,  thick  stifled  with  the  gloom 
Of  wan  dusk  deep'ning  to  the  naked  room  — 

Guard  her,  a  short  day  dead. 

White  and  austere  and  virginal  she  lies: 
Pale  brow,  pale  fallen  lids,  hair  meetly  drest; 
Straight  shoulders  never  burdened,  mother-wise, 
Of  weary  little  bodies  sleep-possest ; 
Meek  mouth  uncurved  of  kisses,  folded  eyes ; 
Thin  hands  light  linked  across  a  shallow  breast; 
Beyond  desire,  past  sorrow  and  past  surprise, 
Mute,  passionless,  at  rest. 

Strange,  as  I  watch,  a  faint  soft  flame  of  youth 
Brightens  upon  her,  slowly,  wondrously, 

And  lends  her  magic  dower  .  .  . 
A  look  of  vision  and  of  prophecy. 
Not  curve  of  cheek  and  color  of  fine  rose, 
Not  curl  nor  fleeting  dimple  —  none  of  those, 
But  the  warm  beauty  and  the  tender  ruth 
Of  April  sunlight  on  an  autumn  flower 

One  brief,  miraculous  hour. 

Lo,  what  at  last  are  dust  and  age  and  death ! 
Time  cannot  touch  the  innermost  spirit  .  .  .  See  — 
Half  smiling,  confident  of  joy  to  be, 
Sure  of  her  heritage,  with  bated  breath 
Biding  her  destiny, 

74 


She  waits,  a  slim  girl  wistful  of  the  truth, 
Life  still  a  dream  —  Love  still  a  mystery ! 

Boston  Transcript  Nancy  Byrd  Turner 

THE  ADVENTURER 

He  did  not  come  in  the  red  dawn, 

He  did  not  come  at  noon, 
And  all  the  long  bright  highway 

Lay  lonely  to  the  moon. 

And  never  more,  we  know  now, 
Will  he  come  wandering  down 

The  breezy  hollows  of  the  hills 
Into  the  quiet  town. 

For  he  has  heard  a  voice  cry 

A  starry-faint  "  Ahoy !  " 
Far  up  the  wind,  and  followed 

Unquestioning  after  joy. 

But  we  are  long  forgetting 

The  quiet  way  he  went, 
With  looks  of  love  and  gentle  scorn 

So  sweetly,  subtly  blent. 

We  cannot  cease  to  wonder, 
We  two  who  loved  him,  how 

He  fares  along  the  windy  ways 
His  feet  must  travel  now. 

But  we  must  draw  the  curtain 

And  fasten  bolt  and  bars 
And  talk,  here  in  the  firelight, 

Of  him  beneath  the  stars. 
The  Bellman  Odell  Shepard 

75 


FLAMMONDE 

The  man  Flammonde,  from  God  knows  where, 
With  firm  address  and  foreign  air, — 
With  news  of  nations  in  his  talk 
And  something  royal  in  his  walk, — 
With  glint  of  iron  in  his  eyes, 
But  never  doubt,  nor  yet  suprise, 
Appeared,  and  stayed,  and  held  his  head 
As  one  by  kings  accredited. 

Erect,  with  his  alert  repose 
About  him,  and  about  his  clothes, 
He  pictured  all  tradition  hears 
Of  what  we  owe  to  fifty  years. 
His  cleansing  heritage  of  taste 
Paraded  neither  want  nor  waste; 
And  what  he  needed  for  his  fee 
To  live,  he  borrowed  graciously. 

He  never  told  us  what  he  was, 
Of  what  mischance,  or  other  cause, 
Had  banished  him  from  better  days 
To  play  the  Prince  of  Castaways. 
Meanwhile  he  played  surpassing  well 
A  part,  for  most,  unplayable; 
In  fine,  one  pauses,  half  afraid 
To  say  for  certain  that  he  played. 

For  that,  one  may  as  well  forego 
Conviction  as  to  yes  or  no ; 
Nor  can  I  say  just  how  intense 
Would  then  have  been  the  difference 
To  several,  who,  having  striven 
In  vain  to  get  what  he  was  given, 
Would  see  the  stranger  taken  on 
By  friends  not  easy  to  be  won. 

76 


Moreover,  many  a  malcontent 
He  soothed  and  found  munificent ; 
His  courtesy  beguiled  and  foiled 
Suspicion  that  his  years  were  soiled; 
His  mien  distinguished  any  crowd, 
His  credit  strengthened  when  he  bowed; 
And  women,  young  and  old,  were  fond 
Of  looking  at  the  man  Flammonde. 

There  was  a  woman  in  our  town 
On  whom  the  fashion  was  to  frown; 
But  while  our  talk  renewed  the  tinge 
Of  a  long-faded  scarlet  fringe, 
The  man  Flammonde  saw  none  of  that, 
But  what  he  saw  we  wondered  at  — 
That  none  of  us,  in  her  distress, 
Could  hide  or  find  our  littleness. 

There  was  a  boy  that  all  agreed 

Had  shut  within  him  the  rare  seed 

Of  learning.     We  could  understand, 

But  none  of  us  could  lift  a  hand. 

The  man  Flammonde  appraised  the  youth, 

And  told  a  few  of  us  the  truth; 

And  thereby,  for  a  little  gold, 

A  flowered  future  was  unrolled. 

There  were  two  citizens  who  fought 
For  years  and  years,  and  over  nought; 
They  made  life  awkward  for  their  friends, 
And  shortened  their  own  dividends. 
The  man  Flammonde  said  what  was  wrong 
Should  be  made  right;  nor  was  it  long 
Before  they  were  again  in  line, 
And  had  each  other  in  to  dine. 


77 


And  these  I  mention  are  but  four 

Of  many  out  of  many  more. 

So  much  for  them.     But  what  of  him  — 

So  firm  in  every  look  and  limb? 

What  small  satanic  sort  of  kink 

Was  in  his  brain  ?     What  broken  link 

Withheld  him  from  the  destinies 

That  came  so  near  to  being  his? 

What  was  he,  when  we  came  to  sift 
His  meaning,  and  to  note  the  drift 
Of  incommunicable  ways 
That  make  us  ponder  while  we  praise? 
Why  was  it  that  his  charm  revealed 
Somehow  the  surface  of  a  shield? 
What  was  it  that  we  never  caught? 
What  was  he,  and  what  was  he  not  ? 

How  much  it  was  of  him  we  met 
We  cannot  ever  know ;  nor  yet 
Shall  all  he  gave  us  quite  atone 
For  what  was  his,  and  his  alone; 
Nor  need  we  now,  since  he  knew  best, 
Nourish  an  ethical  unrest: 
Rarely  at  once  will  nature  give 
The  power  to  be  Flammonde  and  live. 

We  cannot  know  how  much  we  learn 
From  those  who  never  will  return, 
Until  a  flash  of  unforeseen 
Remembrance  falls  on  what  has  been. 
We've  each  a  darkening  hill  to  climb; 
And  this  is  why,  from  time  to  time 
In  Tilbury  Town,  we  look  beyond 
Horizons  for  the  man  Flammonde. 

The  Outlook  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 

78 


GAYHEART 
A  STORY  OF  DEFEAT 


Gayheart  came  in  June,  I  saw  his  heels 

Go  through  the  door,  and  broken  heels  they  were. 
His  eyes  were  big,  and  blue,  and  young.     He  said, 

"  Could  you  direct  me  to  the  Basement,  Sir?  " 

I  knew  the  Basement;  I  had  grubbed  there  once 

Before  a  client  tumbled  in  my  net 
And  brought  me  riches.     It  was  coffin-cold 

And  on  the  bare  walls  seeped  a  moldy  sweat. 

'Twas  next  the  kitchen,  too,  and  had  the  breath 
Of  cheap  things  cooking  —  but  I  led  him  down. 

The  stairs  dropped  naked  through  the  clammy  dark  — 
He  paused,  and  gasped,  as  men  do  when  they  drown. 

"  Is  it  down  there  ?  "     I  turned  and  took  his  arm 
(Thin  as  a  boy's  it  was;  all  skin  and  bone)  ; 

I  said:    "  The  dark  is  just  a  pleasant  cloak 
To  veil  you  off,  and  keep  your  thoughts  alone. 

"  A  Boarding-House  is  all-inquisitive ; 

You're   safer   here."     "  How   did   you  know,"   he 

said, 
"  That  I  would  want  to  be  alone  ?     Am  I 

An  open  book  to  be  so  simply  read  ?  " 

We  stumbled  down  until  I  felt  the  door 

Beneath  my  fingers.  Then  I  struck  a  light  — 

The  room  grinned  at  us  like  an  ugly  face 

Caught  in  a  heart-beat  from  the  cloak  of  night. 

79 


The  boy's  breath  cracked  his  lips.     I  saw  his  soul 
Stand  in  his  eyes,  and  look,  and  shrink  again, 

Sick  with  the  moment's  shattered  visionings, 
And  on  his  face  went  the  slow  feet  of  pain. 

"  It  strikes  you  bleak,  eh?     Come,  it's  not  so  bad. 

The  gas  won't  whimper  if  you  turn  it  low. 
The  bed  is  lame,  but  friendly.     Here's  a  desk 

To  scribble  at."     He  said:     "  I  write,  you  know. 

"  I've  come  to  be  a  writer."  And  he  smiled, 
As  boys  do  when  they  say  their  heart's  desire; 

"I'm  from  the  South  —  a  paper  took  me  on, 
But  that's  just  keeping  fagots  in  my  fire." 

He  smiled  again,  for  he  had  all  his  youth 

To  smile  from.     "  My  real  work,"  he  said,  "  will  be 

To  sketch  the  city  —  not  in  prosy  books, 
But  in  its  native,  living  poetry. 

"  Cities  were  made  for  measures  and  for  rhyme, 
They  have  an  ancient  minstrelsy  of  feet, 

And  rivers  sweep  their  shipping  like  a  song, 
And  there  is  endless  music  in  a  street 

"  Endless,  I  say,  and  never  caught  by  man. 

Your  books  ?     Ah,  how  they  walk,  walk,  walk,  with 

words ; 
But  verse  runs  on  light  feet,  as  Cities  do  — 

O  God,  I've  dreamed  it  till  it  hurts  like  swords 

"  Not  to  be  writing;  but  I've  got  to  learn, 

Learn,   learn   it  all  —  the   streets,   the  parks,   the 
ships, 

The  subway  and  the  skyscrapers !  "     He  stopped 
And  brushed  his  hand  across  his  trembling  lips. 

80 


"Excuse  me,  sir.     You  were  the  first  kind  soul 
I'd  spoken  to  —  the  rest  are  like  the  tomb." 

He  smiled  and  touched  my  hand;  and  then  I  turned, 
Leaving  him  standing  in  his  wistful  room. 


II 

June  passed,  and  weather  came  that  seared  our  flesh. 

The  soft  streets  crawled;  old  men  dropped  down 

and  died; 
Within  the  House  our  summer  tempers  snarled, 

And  every  night  the  lady  boarder  cried. 

Her  alcove  shouldered  mine  —  and  so  I  knew. 

She  came  at  six,  her  feet  as  slow  as  lead 
Dragged  through  her  door,  and  cried  till  supper-time. 

I  never  saw  her  but  her  eyes  were  red. 

Poor  Gay  heart  whitened  slowly,  till  his  face 
Was  like  the  paper  that  he  scribbled  on. 

But  he  had  youth,  and  some  vague  bravery 
That  held  him  taut  until  his  task  was  done. 

He  rasped  our  nerves,  though,  with  his  restless  ways, 
His  restless,  silent  ways.  .  .  .  He  never  seemed 

To  see  us  when  we  passed  him  in  the  hall  — 

His  eyes  were  distant  with  the  thing  he  dreamed. 

He  bolted  dinner  like  a  dog,  as  though 

He  feared  his  fate  would  snatch  him  unaware 

With  all  his  dreams  unproved  —  then,  starting  up, 
Would  grope  the  shadowed  hallway  to  the  stair, 

And  down  to  his  eternal  folderol, 

His  spitting  gaslight  and  his  scratching  pen, 

Until  we  cursed  him  for  his  industry, 

His  being  different  from  the  ruck  of  men. 

81 


Then  one  dead  night  when  all  the  stars  did  sweat 
He  plucked  my  sleeve,  and  smiled,  and  drew  me 

down 
His  damned  black  stairs.     Then,  while  the  clogged 

jet  whined, 
He  read  me  what  he'd  written  of  the  Town. 

It  struck  me  wonderful.     It  had  the  ache 
Of  rush-hour  traffic  in  it,  and  the  swing 

Of  wheels,  as  though  he'd  listened  in  a  street, 

A  crowded  street  where  life  ran  thundering.  .  .  . 

It  made  me  think  of  going  to  my  work; 

Of  men  in  crowds,  and  women's  faces  drawn 
With  painted  lines,  and  shops  and  ships  and  spires 

And  skyscrapers  that  reached  up  for  the  dawn. 

And  then  beneath  the  step  of  rhyme  I  heard 

The  boy's  soul  speaking.  .  .  .  And  I  knew  that  he 

Had  spent  himself  like  dust  among  the  crowd 
To  catch  the  heart-beat  for  his  poetry. 

His  voice  went  out  like  flame.     I  found  myself 

Shocked  by  the  still,  small  room.     To  me  it  seemed 
Great  throngs  had  passed  with  various  noise.     He 

said: 

"  That's    just    the    gateway    to    the    thing    I've 
dreamed !  " 

HI 

There  is  a  street's  end,  where  the  coasters  sleep, 
And  there,  at  twilight,  purple  waters  run, 

And  o'er  their  breast  the  crimson-coated  day 
Trails  the  last  silver  of  the  fallen  sun. 

A  wall  is  there,  for  men  to  dream  upon ; 

And  so  young  Gayheart  went,  with  all  his  scars 

82 


Unhealed  .  .  .  and  saw  the  lights  sown  through  the 

dusk; 
And  his  tall  city  in  a  cloak  of  stars. 

Tier  upon  tier  the  golden  windows  burned, 

As  though  men  sought  new  freedom  in  the  skies ; 

And  somehow,  lured  by  starlight  and  by  dawn, 
Built  his  blind  cities  up  to  paradise ! 

Afar  the  bridges  spun  their  silver  webs, 

The  mellow  whistles  talked  along  the  stream ; 

But  Gayheart  leaned  athirst  upon  a  stone, 
Hurt  with  the  shining  beauty  of  his  dream. 

And  he  was  like  a  child  with  wistfulness, 

Holding  his  hands  out  through  the  summer  night, 

Where  in  the  dusk  the  great,  clean  towers  flared, 
Like  swords  thrust  up  in  some  red  battle-light! 

And  then  he  turned,  all  dumb  with  his  desire, 
And  stumbled  through  still  streets,  until  he  found 

The  great  bridge  trembling  underfoot  and  heard 
The  trains  go  by  him  with  a  tempest  sound. 

Black;  shapeless   forms  came  shrieking  with  bright 
eyes; 

The  sea-wind  rolled  like  drums  against  his  ears, 
And  he  was  singing,  singing  as  he  trod, 

And  in  his  eyes  were  sudden,  smarting  tears. 

The  tallest  spire  enraptured  him!     He  strode 

Under  the  roofed  bridge,  where  the  newsboys  cry, 

And  out  into  that  little  breathing-space 
From  whence  the  windows  go  into  the  sky. 

And  there  he  sought  a  bench  and  sat  him  down, 
Between  two  snoring  vagabonds,  who  lay 

83 


Sprawled  on  their  faces,  .  .  .  but  his  wakefulness 
Was  like  a  lamp  within  him  till  the  day. 

What  did  it  mean?  the  stone  flung  like  a  song? 

The  desk-light  brothering  the  star?     The  whole 
Up-sweep  of  roofs  that  is  our  native-land  — 

What  meaning  had  it,  and  what  secret  soul? 

He  sat  with  upturned  eyes,  as  young  men  do, 
Until  the  lamp  upon  his  face  grew  wan; 

He  saw  his  nation  toiling  in  its  House, 

Its  tall,  strange  House  that  reached  up   for  the 
dawn ! 

And  dreaming,  saw  the  Elder  Worlds  asleep 
In  their  low  houses,  beautiful  with  Time.  .  .  . 

The  vagrant  at  his  left  side  groaned  and  breathed, 
Lifting  a  face  of  cumulative  grime  — 

"  What's  in1  yer  gizzard,  lad,  that  twists  ye  so  ? 

I  know !     You're  one  of  them  wot's  got  a  brain ! 
Now  me  — "     His  brother  raised  a  blowzy  head : 

"  Aw,  hell !  "  he  snarled,  and  fell  asleep  again. 

Across  the  roofs  the  first,  faint  gold  of  dawn 

Streaked  the  dun  heavens,  and  the  Day  Men  took 

The  windows  of  the  sleepless,  so  that  life 
Went  smoothly  like  a  never-written  book. 

And  Gayheart  shook  the  cramps  from  his  dull  limbs, 
Rose  and  went  up  the  paper's  curling  stair 

Until  he  reached  the  City  Room.     The  Staff, 
Half  stripped  of  cloth,  already  sweated  there. 

But  he  dropped  at  his  crazy,  limping  desk, 
In  the  dim  corner  where  the  cubs  are  kept, 

84 


And  wrote:  "America  is  wake  fulness!  " 
And  fell  face  upon  the  words,  and  slept. 


IV 

Gayheart's  book  came  back,  and  back  again, 
And  still  he  mailed  it  out,  with  little  lies 

To  cloak  its  failure  —  but  I  think  we  saw 
The  naked,  frightened  soul  behind  his  eyes. 

The  lady  boarder  knew.     I  heard  her  say 

A  cruel  thing:    "  Your  book  is  home,"  she  said, 

"  For  Sunday  dinner."     But  he  passed  her  by 
Without  the  slightest  turning  of  his  head. 

She  hated  him.  .  .  .  And  so  mid-autumn  fell, 
With  no  abating  coolness.     Each  new  sun 

Was  like  a  murderer  let  out  of  locks, 

And  life  went  sickly,  praying  to  be  done. 

A  night  fell  when  all  sleep  was  vain.  ...  I  rose 
And  stumbled  to  the  windowful  of  stars, 

That  was  my  share  of  heaven.  .  .  .  There  I  stood 
Letting  the  soft  night  seep  into  my  scars. 

The  window  opened  on  a  little  court, 
And  suddenly  a  feeble  thrust  of  flame 

Stabbed  like  a  pettish  dagger  through  the  dark, 
Out  of  the  night  a  ragged  breathing  came. 

...  I  saw  the  Basement  boarder  stooping  down, 
His  lean  face  bloodied  with  the  touch  of  light. 

A  tongue  of  fire  licked  his  hands  .  .  .  and  died, 
Brief  as  the  flutter  of  a  star  in  flight. 

Somehow  I  sensed  a  tragedy.  .  .  .  The  gloom 
Was  like  a  grave,  the  light  leaped  up  no  more. 

85 


I   turned  and  groped  down  through  the  breathless 

house ; 
Until  I  saw  him  crouching  by  his  door. 

He  stood  there,  staring  at  his  empty  hands 

As  though  they'd  done  his  dearest  dream  to  death ; 

The  palms  were  soiled  and  smeared  with  paper  ash ; 
There  was  a  reek  of  whisky  on  his  breath. 

"  What's   this  ?  "   I   said.     He   raised   his   head   and 
smiled 

With  a  deep  drunkenness  that  touched  his  soul. 
"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is !     I've  been  a  fool  — 

The  sort  of  fool  that  makes  a  dream  his  goal. 

"  I've  worked  my  heart  out ;  done  a  decent  thing  — 
And  no  one  wants  it !     No  one  wants  to  look 

Beneath  the  surface  of  this  world  of  ours. 

It's  all  damned  artifice.  .  .  .  I've  burned  my  book." 

Even  to  me  the  thing  seemed  tragical  — 
As  though  he'd  set  a  torch  to  half  himself. 

"  What !  "  I  cried,  "  burned  your  splendid  poetry  ? 
Laid  yourself  out  like  that  upon  a  shelf? 

"What  will  you  do?"     "I'll  do  as  other  men; 

Harness  my  talent  as  a  modern  should. 
I'll  do  the  obvious  with  all  my  age  — 

The  cheap,  the  counterfeit,  the  understood ! 

"  I've  a  new  job  this  night;  a  fine,  new  job — " 
He  spat  into  the  shadows  of  the  place  — 

"  Verse-making  on  a  magazine !     The  sort 
That  wears  a  painted  simper  on  its  face. 

"  I'm  rich  .  .  .  and  drunk.     I  had  to  drink  or  scream, 
And  drink  goes  deep  with  me;  ...  get  me  to  bed. 

86 


I've  slaughter  on  my  soul  —  and  verse  to  make. 
My  editor  wants  —  something  light  —  he  said  — 

"  Something  that's  brisk  and  —  funny !  "     There  he 
stood, 

With  those  raw,  suffering  eyes  and  stared  at  me, 
Until  I  near  cried  out.     He  was  so  white ! 

And  older  .  .  .  older  than  a  man  should  be. 

I  swear  whole  ages  crumbled  in  his  face, 

For  he  had  dreamed,  and  dreams  are  ancient  things, 

Bearing  a  harsher  reckoning  than  Time 

When  once  despair  has  crumbled  up  their  wings. 

I  got  him  stripped  and  into  bed  at  last, 

The  poor,  spent  lad !     He  lay  there  still  and  stark, 
His  smudged  hands  clenched  across  his  shallow  chest, 

And  moaned  once  as  I  crept  out  through  the  dark. 

Success  came  to  him  swiftly;  made  him  drunk. 

He  gulped  life  as  a  drunkard  gulps  his  bowl, 
Forgetting  all  his  splendid  futile  dreams  — 

He  was  an  altered  person  to  his  soul. 

He  fattened  and  grew  flushed;  he  learned  to  sneer; 

His  verses  ran  like  swift,  malignant  flame, 
Smirching  the  thing  they  touched  and  burning  on 

To  wipe  the  pathway  for  his  striding  fame. 

He  left  the  Basement  then;  soared  up  two  flights 
With  braggart  wings,  bought  furniture  and  prints, 

Nonsense,  we  called  it !  —  and  to  crown  the  show 
Decked  out  his  trappings  in  a  flowered  chintz. 

But  that  phase  passed.     His  true  self's  tide  flowed 

back, 
We  saw  him  drowning  in  his  own  strange  deeps ; 

87 


A  crawling  restlessness  crept  from  his  eyes, 
The  sort  of  serpent  thing  that  never  sleeps. 

A  month  or  two  he  clung  to  his  gay  nest, 
Beat  his  wings  breathlessly  within  a  shell, 

Made  himself  live  with  all  his  flaunted  things, 
Grim  as  a  tortured  convict  in  a  cell. 

And  then  his  self's  self  conquered.  .  .  .  One  May 
night 

When  earth  was  breathing  fragrance  to  its  core, 
And  open  windows  drank  the  breath  of  Spring, 

He  came  and  stood  within  my  open  door. 

"Please,"   he   said,   "would   you   mind?"  .  .  .  And 

there  he  stopped, 

Sucking  his  cheeks  in  like  a  timid  boy. 
"  I've   gone   back   to   the   Basement.  .  .  .  I've   gone 

back! 
The  other  room  made  life  seem  just  a  toy. 

"  And  that's  not  right.  .  .  .  There's  something  more 
to  life 

Than  turning  it  to  playthings.  .  .  .  I've  gone  back, 
To  find  my  book  again,  to  do  the  work 

I'd  planned  to  do  according  to  my  knack." 

"Your  book,"  I  said,  "your  book?  You  burned  it, 
boy!" 

He  flinched.     "  I  know.     I  feel  its  ashes  still 
Here  on  my  hands.     That's  what  I  want  of  you  — 

I  know  that  you  can  help  me  if  you  will." 

His  tone  was  light,  and  yet  I  heard  him  breathe 
As  men  do  in  the  ache  and  grip  of  strife. 

88 


I  rose  and  went  with  him.     Again  he  said, 

"  There's   something  more  than  toys  to  make  of 
life." 

The  Basement,  with  its  yellow  tooth  of  light, 
Grinned  at  us  like  a  long-familiar  face, 

Whose  daily  wont  of  ugliness,  revealed, 

Mounts  to  a  sin  within  the  moment's  space. 

Its  gaping  door  still  breathed  the  winter's  chill, 
Its  single  window  level  with  the  street 

Flickered  with  fragments  of  the  passing  world, 
Hummed  with  whispered  drudgery  of  feet. 

And  yet  to  him  its  very  barrenness 

Was  like  a  savage  penance.     Standing  there 

He  bruised  himself  upon  its  ugliness 

Until  the  sweat  stood  out  beneath  his  hair. 

"  I  asked  you  down,"  he  said,  "  to  help  me  think, 
To  help  remember."     Once  again  the  sweat 

Stood  out  on  him,  and  as  I  looked  I  knew 
It  was  his  soul  had  made  his  body  wet. 

He  gripped  me  with  the  hunger  of  his  eyes, 
Hard  as  a  knife  his  glance  was,  hard  as  steel. 

"How   did   it   go?  —  My   book?     I've  thought   and 

thought 
Until  my  brain  is  like  a  going  wheel." 

I  stared  at  him  in  sudden  choking  pain. 

"  Boy !  "    I    said.     "  For   my   life  — "     He   cried, 

"  You  must ! 
It's  all  behind  a  door  inside  your  mind; 

It's  there,  if  you  will  brush  aside  the  dust ! 

"  My  own  mind's  locked  against  me.     Now  and  then 
A  line  comes  back,  a  bare  crumb  at  the  most. 

89 


My  plan ,  my  meaning  —  all  the  soul  within 
Peers  with  faded  features  of  a  ghost." 

"  It  was  the  Town,"  I  said,  "  in  all  its  guise. 

The  Town!     It  was  the  crowds  along  the  street; 
Faces  and  spires  and  stately  ships  and  dreams, 

Desires,  and  winnings,  and  I  think  —  defeat." 

"  Defeat,"    he    gasped,    "  defeat ! "     And    then    he 
dropped 

Down  at  his  palsied  desk  and  bowed  his  head 
Upon  his  arms.  ...  I  felt  my  flesh  grow  cold 

As  though  that  gesture  meant  a  man  struck  dead. 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  from  the  prison  of  his  arms, 

"  What  god  would  wreck  a  man  with  one  mistake  ? 

Give  him  two  selves  and  to  each  self  a  sword 
So  he's  half  slain  or  ever  he's  awake !  " 

He  raised  his  haggard  face.  "  In  every  man 
There  is  division  of  the  dust  and  dream, 

And  Youth  is  just  the  crossing  of  the  swords 
Before  he  takes  his  place  within  the  scheme. 

"  The  Town's  a  citadel  for  all  things  flesh, 
And  yet  a  man  might  storm  it  with  a  song, 

Played  he  not  traitor  to  himself  ...  I  quit, 
And  oh,  it  was  the  quitting  that  was  wrong ! 

"  I  was  so  lonely  for  a  thing  to  love, 

A  single  look,  a  passing  word  of  praise  — 

I  was  as  near  to  triumph  as  a  smile, 

And  now  defeat,  defeat  for  all  my  days ! 

"  Cities  are  cruel  things,"  he  whispered  then, 

"  Their  slaves  are  Failure,  and  their  gods  Defeat." 

In  at  the  window  came  a  thrust  of  wind, 
Bearing  the  weary  music  of  the  street  .  .  . 

90 


He  leaped  up  with  an  oath,  snapped  off  the  light, 
An  instant,  unforgetable,  there  gleamed 

His   white   face.  .  .  .  Then  a  whisper   through  the 

dark, 
"  I  would  to  God  that  I  had  never  dreamed." 


The  years  go  slowly  in  a  boarding-house, 

Sharpened  with  neither  passions  nor  despairs; 

Time  seems  to  falter  in  those  dim,  gray  halls  — 
The  days  are  only  foosteps  on  the  stairs. 

The  Basement  yawned  for  tenants,  but  none  came; 

It  seemed  completer  for  its  emptiness. 
Gayheart  had  been  its  last  ...  To  me  the  room 

Still  wore  the  mantle  of  his  soul's  distress. 

I  never  saw  his  face  but  once  again ; 

It  was  a  sharp  cold  midnight  in  the  fall; 
Broadway  lay  flaming  like  a  polished  sword, 

As  though  one  night  were  given  to  flame  its  all. 

The  theatres,  bright-mouthed,  poured  forth  a  stream 
Of  pallid  faces  that  the  glare  struck  dead. 

The  street  crawled,  and  the  noise  went  up  to  God 
In  formless  cries,  like  some  great  need  unsaid. 

The  buffet  of  false  brightness  swept  the  night 

With  rosy  blushes  to  the  firmament. 
Here  ran  the  riot  of  a  hoarded  world, 

Here  life  was  only  reckoned  to  be  spent! 

And  here,  carved  in  that  graceless  art  of  fire, 

Stood  Gayheart's  name,  a  star's  height  o'er  the 
street. 

His  words  came  back  to  me  as  clear  as  bells, 

"  Their  slaves  are  Failure,  and  their  gods  Defeat!  " 

91 


Was  this  defeat,  then?     Was  his  fame  defeat? 

I  knew  the  sort  of  comic  thing  he'd  done. 
Had  he  forgot  those  ashes  on  his  hands  ? 

Had  he  by  hard  forgetting  played  and  won  ? 

Then  suddenly  I  saw  him  in  the  crowd, 
Beneath  that  scarlet  flaunting  of  his  name. 

A  smooth,  smug  mask  of  flesh  was  on  him  now; 
He  was  the  very  creature  of  his  fame. 

His  boyishness  had  died.  .  .  .  His  hard,  clean  youth 
Was  gone  forever  'neath  a  whelm  of  clay. 

Yet  as  I  looked  I  saw  him  lift  his  head, 
And  all  his  grossness  seemed  to  fall  away. 

His  hungry  look  went  straight  to  Heaven's  throne, 

High  up  into  the  folded  book  of  stars, 
And  on  his  face  I  saw  the  Quest  again  — 

He  was  the  seeker,  fainting  with  his  scars ! 

One  glimpse  and  he  was  gone,  ...  a  soul  blown  on 
And  lost  at  last  beneath  those  painted  skies. 

Yet  he  still  lives !     There  never  dawns  a  day 
But  I  behold  him  in  the  City's  eyes. 

The  North  American  Review  Dana  Burnet 


TO  A  GENTLEMAN  REFORMER 

Keep  it  —  your  torn  and  rotting  decency, 
Your  antique  toga  with  its  quaint  misfit. 
Keep  it  —  the  world  has  little  use  for  it, 

Or  swaddled  truths  too  bashful  to  be  free. 

This  is  no  age  for  sick  humility, 

Or  queasy  goodness  without  strength  enough 

92 


To  dare  the  keen  and  hungry  edge  of  love, 
Or  Fear  that  wraps  itself  in  chastity. 

Hide  in  its  crumbling  folds.     How  should  you  know 
That  virtue  may  be  dirty  and  can  grow 

Furtive  and  festering  in  a  mind  obscene. 
How  should  you  know  the  world's  glad,  vulgar  heart, 
The  sensual  health  that  is  the  richest  part 

Of  Life :  so  frankly  carnal  —  and  so  clean. 

The  Masses  Louis  Untermeyer 

OLD  KING  COLE 

In  Tilbury  Town  did  Old  King  Cole 

A  wise  old  age  anticipate, 

Desiring,  with  his  pipe  and  bowl, 

No  Khan's  extravagant  estate ; 

No  crown  annoyed  his  honest  head, 

No  fiddlers  three  were  called  or  needed; 

For  two  disastrous  heirs  instead 

Made  music  more  than  ever  three  did. 

Bereft  of  her  with  whom  his  life 
Was  harmony  without  a  flaw, 
He  took  no  other  for  a  wife, 
Nor  sighed  for  any  that  he  saw; 
And  if  he  doubted  his  two  sons, 
And  heirs,  Alexis  and  Evander, 
He  might  have  been  as  doubtful  once 
Of  Robert  Burns  and  Alexander. 

Alexis,  in  his  early  youth, 
Began  to  steal  —  from  old  and  young. 
Likewise  Evander,  and  the  truth 
Was  like  a  bad  taste  on  his  tongue. 
Born  thieves  and  liars,  their  affair 

93 


Seemed  only  to  be  tarred  with  evil  — 

The  most  insufferable  pair 

Of  scamps  that  ever  cheered  the  devil. 

The  world  went  on,  their  fame  went  on, 
And  they  went  on  —  from  bad  to  worse ; 
Till,  goaded  hot  with  nothing  done, 
And  each  accoutred  with  a  curse, 
The  friends  of  Old  King  Cole,  by  twos, 
And  fours,  and  sevens,  and  elevens, 
Pronounced  unalterable  views 
Of  doings  that  were  not  of  heaven's. 

And  having  learned  again  whereby 
Their  baleful  zeal  had  come  about, 
King  Cole  met  many  a  wrathful  eye 
So  kindly  that  its  wrath  went  out  — 
Or  partly  out.     Say  what  they  would, 
He  seemed  the  more  to  court  their  candor ; 
But  never  told  what  kind  of  good 
Was  in  Alexis  and  Evander. 

And  Old  King  Cole,  with  many  a  puff 

That  haloed  his  urbanity, 

Would  smoke  till  he  had  smoked  enough, 

And  listen  most  attentively. 

He  beamed  as  with  an  inward  light 

That  had  the  Lord's  assurance  in  it ; 

And  once  a  man  was  there  all  night, 

Expecting  something  every  minute. 

But  whether  from  too  little  thought, 

Or  too  much  fealty  to  the  bowl, 

A  dim  reward  was  all  he  got 

For  sitting  up  with  Old  King  Cole. 

"  Though  mine,"  the  father  mused  aloud, 

"  Are  not  the  sons  I  would  have  chosen, 

94 


Shall  I,  less  evilly  endowed, 
By  their  infirmity  be  frozen  ? 

"  They'll  have  a  bad  end,  I'll  agree, 

But  I  was  never  born  to  groan ; 

For  I  can  see  what  I  can  see, 

And  I'm  accordingly  alone. 

With  open  heart  and  open  door, 

I  love  my  friends,  I  like  my  neighbors ; 

But  if  I  try  to  tell  you  more, 

Your  doubts  will  overmatch  my  labors. 

"  This  pipe  would  never  make  me  calm, 
This  bowl  my  grief  would  never  drown. 
For  grief  like  mine  there  is  no  balm 
In  Gilead,  or  in  Tilbury  Town. 
And  if  I  see  what  I  can  see, 
I  know  not  any  way  to  blind  it 
Nor  more  if  any  way  may  be 
For  you  to  grope  or  fly  to  find  it. 

"  There  may  be  room  for  ruin  yet, 
And  ashes  for  a  wasted  love; 
Or,  like  One  whom  you  may  forget, 
I  may  have  meat  you  know  not  of. 
And  if  I'd  rather  live  than  weep 
Meanwhile,  do  you  find  that  surprising? 
Why,  bless  my  soul,  the  man's  asleep ! 
That's  good.     The  sun  will  soon  be  rising." 

Scribner's  Magazine    Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 
LINCOLN 

April  15,  1865-1915 

O  thou  that  on  this  April  day 
Went  down  the  bitter  road  to  death, 

95 


While  freedom  stumbled  on  her  way, 
Her  beacon  blown  out  with  a  breath  — 

Look  back  upon  thy  people  now ! 

Behold  the  work  thy  hands  have  wrought, — 

The  conquest  of  thy  bleeding  brow, 

The  harvest  of  thy  sleepless  thought. 

From  sea  to  sea,  from  palm  to  pine, 
The  day  of  lord  and  slave  is  done; 
The  wind  will  float  no  flag  but  thine; 
The  long-divided  house  is  one. 

More  proudly  will  Potomac  wind 
Past  thy  pure  temple  to  the  sea; 
But,  ah !  the  hearts  of  men  will  find 
No  marble  white  enough  for  thee ! 

Washington  Evening  Star 

Wendell  Phillips  Stafford 

TO  EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS 

Ever  since  you  revealed  to  me 

Spoon  River, 

I  have  understood  what  Keats 

Meant  us  to  feel 

In  his  sonnet  on  Chapman's  Homer ; 

But  your  river  is  broader  than  the  Pacific, 

And  the  glass  you  have  swung  down  to  our  eyes 

Has  made  visible  most  of  Heaven, 

And  more  of  Hell, 

And  all  of  Charity. 

The  critics  are  still  squinting, 

And  humming  and  hawing. 

"  Is  this  poetry,  or  is  it  prose?  " 

96 


Life  must  be  branded  ...  for  the  market! 

Art  must  be  labelled  like  a  mummy ! 

And  what  of  Truth? 

Spoon  River 

Has  flooded  their  pigeonholes 

And  blurred  their  formulas. 

They  will  revenge  themselves 

By  making  you  a  fade. 

Critics,  remember  Chanticler! 

He  did  not  crow  —  in  the  sun; 

He  cannot  crow  it  out. 

The  rhymers  are  still  mumbling, 

And  invoking  Euterpe. 

"  This  is  not  poetry,  nor  is  it  prose." 

Art  must  be  shapely,  gemmed  ...  a  reliquary! 

Life  must  be  tuneful,  like  a  caged  canary! 

And  what  of  Truth? 

Spoon  River 

Has  risen  and  spreads  on, 

Threatening  their  mincing  gait. 

They  console  themselves 

With :    "  Any  one  can  do  this." 

Rhymers,  remember  Walter  Simmons! 

I,  one  of  you,  agree  with  him: 

" I  didn't  have  the  brains" 

I  glory  in  the  lyric  masters  of  our  Past. 
But  you  have  swept  through  my  heart 
On  a  river  whose  rhythm  is  Life: 
Its  waves  have  marched  through  my  soul 
To  a  music  whose  Art  is  Beauty: 
You  have  buffeted  and  choked  me, 
And  left  me  bruised  .  .  .  but  at  peace ! 
For  both  blow  and  balm 

97 


Issued  from  the  hands  of  Truth: 

She  is  the  genius  of  your  power. 

I  glory  in  the  lyric  masters  of  our  Past; 

But  you  have  made  for  me  a  glory  of  our  Present. 

The  scholar  in  me  has  always  leaned 

To  the  quiet  Gray ; 

The  lover  of  the  open,  of  its  message 

To  the  simple  Wordsworth ; 

The  idealist,  the  dreamer, 

To  Shelley: 

But  I  would  sooner  have  written 

The  admission  of  Fiddler  Jones 

Than  the  "  Elegy," 

Or  the  vision  of  Faith  Matheny 

Than  the  "  Intimations." 

Shelley  would  have  crowned  you 

With  his  crown. 

As  the  Nile  to  Egypt, 

So  Spoon  River  to  the  New  World ! 

Reedy's  Mirror  Richard  Butler  Glaenser 


WASHINGTON  McNEELY 

Rich,  honored  by  my  fellow  citizens, 

The  father  of  many  children,  born  of  a  noble  mother, 

All  raised  there 

In  the  great  mansion-house,  at  the  edge  of  town. 

Note  the  cedar-tree  on  the  lawn ! 

I  sent  all  the  boys  to  Ann  Arbor,  all  of  the  girls  to 

Rockford, 
The  while  my  life  went  on,  getting  more  riches  and 

honors  — 
Resting  under  my  cedar  tree  at  evening. 

98 


The  years  went  on. 

I  sent  the  girls  to  Europe; 

I  dowered  them  when  married. 

I  gave  the  boys  money  to  start  in  business. 

They  were  strong  children,  promising  as  apples 

Before  the  bitten  places  show. 

But  John  fled  the  country  in  disgrace. 

Jenny  died  in  child-birth  — 

I  sat  under  my  cedar  tree. 

Harry  killed  himself  after  a  debauch, 

Susan  was  divorced  — 

I  sat  under  my  cedar  tree. 

Paul  was  invalided  from  over  study, 

Mary  became  a  recluse  at  home  for  love  of  a  man  — 

I  sat  under  my  cedar  tree. 

All  were  gone,  or  broken-winged  or  devoured  by  life  — 

I  sat  under  my  cedar  tree. 

My  mate,  the  mother  of  them,  was  taken  — 

I  sat  under  my  cedar  tree, 

Till  ninety  years  were  tolled. 

O  maternal  Earth,  which  rocks  the  fallen  leaf  to  sleep ! 

Reedy'g  Mirror  Edgar  Lee  Matters 


THE  VINEGAR  MAN 

The  crazy  old  Vinegar  Man  is  dead!     He  never  had 

missed  a  day  before ! 
Somebody   went   to   his    tumble-down    shed,   by   the 

Haunted  House,  and  forced  the  door. 
There  in  the  litter  of  his  pungent  pans,  the  murky 

mess  of  his  mixing  place, — 
Deep,  sticky  spiders  and  empty  cans  —  with  the  same 

old  frown  on  his  sour  old  face. 

99 


"  Vinegar-Vinegar-Vinegar  Man ! 
Face-us-and-chase-us-and-catch-if-you-can! 
Pepper  for  a  tongue !     Pickle  for  a  nose ! 
Stick  a  pin  in  him  and  vinegar  flows ! 
Glare-at-us-swear-at-us-catch-if-you-can ! 
Ketch-up-and-chow-chow-and- Vinegar-Man !  " 

Nothing  but  recipes  and  worthless  junk;  greasy  old 

records  of  paid  and  due; 
But,  down  in  the  depths  of  a  battered  trunk,  a  queer, 

quaint  valentine  torn  in  two  — 
Red  hearts  and  arrows,  and  silver  lace,  and  a  prim, 

dim,  ladylike  script  that  said  — 
(Oh,  Vinegar  Man,  with  the  sour  old  face !) — "  With 

dearest  love,  from  Ellen  to  Ned !  " 

"  Steal-us-and-peel-us-and-drown-us-in-brine ! 
He  pickles  his  heart  in  " —  a  valentine! 
"  Vinegar  for  blood !     Pepper  for  his  tongue ! 
Stick  a  pin  in  him  and  " —  once  he  was  young! 
"  Glare-at-us-swear-at-us-catch-if-you-can !  " — 
"  With  dearest  love  " —  to  the  Vinegar  Man ! 

Dingy  little  books  of  profit  and  loss  (died  about  Sat 
urday,  so  they  say) 

And  a  queer,  quaint  valentine,  torn  across  .  .  .  torn, 
but  it  never  was  thrown  away ! 

"  With  dearest  love  from  Ellen  to  Ned  "— "  Old  Pep 
per  Tongue !  Pickles  his  heart  in  brine !  " 

The  Vinegar  Man  is  a  long  time  dead:  he  died  when 
he  tore  his  valentine. 

The  Smart  Set  Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell 

HANNAH  ARMSTRONG 

I  wrote  him  a  letter  asking  him  for  old  times'  sake 
To  discharge  my  sick  boy  from  the  army; 

100 


But  maybe  he  couldn't  read  it. 

Then  I  went  to  town  and  had  James  Garber, 

Who  wrote  beautifully,  write  him  a  letter; 

But  maybe  that  was  lost  in  the  mails. 

So  I  travelled  all  the  way  to  Washington, 

I  was  more  than  an  hour  finding  the  White  House. 

And  when  I  found  it  they  turned  me  away, 

Hiding  their  smiles.     Then  I  thought: 

"  Oh,  well,  he  ain't  the  same  as  when  I  boarded  him 

And  he  and  my  husband  worked  together 

And  all  of  us  called  him  Abe,  there  in  Menard." 

As  a  last  attempt  I  turned  to  a  guard  and  said: 

"  Please  say  it's  old  Aunt  Hannah  Armstrong 

From  Illinois,  come  to  see  him  about  her  sick  boy 

In  the  army." 

Well,  j  ust  in  a  moment  they  let  me  in ! 

And  when  he  saw  me  he  broke  in  a  laugh, 

And  dropped  his  business  as  president, 

And  wrote  in  his  own  hand  Doug's  discharge, 

Talking  the  while  of  the  early  days, 

And  telling  stories. 

Reedy's  Mirror  Edgar  Lee  Masters 


BEYOND  THE  WAR 


Now  seres  the  planet  like  a  leaf 
On  burnt  and  shaken  Ygsdrasil. 
What  voice  have  we  for  this  wide  ill? 

How  shall  we  mourn  when  God  in  grief 
Bows  for  a  world  he  made  and  lost 
At  love's  eternal  cost? 

101 


'Tis  not  that  brides  shall  turn  to  stone, 
And  mothers  bend  with  bitter  cry 
Cursing  the  day  they  did  not  die 

When  daring  death  they  bore  a  son, 
And  waifs  shall  lift  their  thin  hands  up 
For  famine's  empty  cup; 

'Tis  not  that  piled  in  bleeding  mounds 
These  fathers,  sons,  and  brothers  moan, 
Or  torn  upon  the  seas  go  down 

Glad  that  the  waves  may  hide  their  wounds ; 
Not  that  the  lips  that  knew  our  kiss 
Are  parched  and  black,  but  this: 

That  thou  must  pause,  O  vaulting  Mind, 
Untrammelled  leaper  in  the  sun; 
Pause,  stricken  by  the  spear  of  one, 

The  savage  thou  hadst  left  behind; 
Fall,  gibber,  fade,  and  final  pass, 
Less  than  returning  grass: 

That  Hate  shall  end  what  Love  began, 
And  strip  from  Life  her  human  boast, — 
The  Maker's  whitest  dream  be  lost, 

The  dream  he  trusted  to  the  Man, 

The  Man  who  upright  rose  and  stared 
Farther  than  eagle  dared : 

That  now  the  red  lust  blinds  the  eye 
That  bore  the  vision,  held  the  star; 
And  where  Life's   fossil  recreants  are 

Another  bone  and  skull  shall  lie, 
While  she  to  dust  must  stoop  again 
To  build  her  more  than  men. 

n 

But  as  the  blackest  marble's  lit 

With  struggles  of  a  birthless  dawn, — 

102 


Nay,  as  behind  her  door  undrawn 
Hell  forges  key  that  opens  it, 

And  souls  that  troop  to  light  and  breath 
Cast  habit  then  of  death; 

Our  dark,  this  dark,  wears  still  a  gleam. 
O  God,  thou  wilt  not  turn  thine  eyes 
For  comfort  to  thine  other  skies, — 

Some  other  star  that  saved  thy  dream, — 
Until,  her  gory  fiends  fordone, 
Night  wrestles  to  the  sun! 

Canst  find  no  cheer  in  this,  that  o'er 
Our  moaning,  reeking  battle  dews, 
And  redder  than  the  blood  we  lose, 

More  hot  and  swift,  in  surge  before 

War's  shriek  and  smoke,  goes  up  as  flame 
The  scarlet  of  our  shame? 

Stripped  and  unchristianed  in  a  day, 
Made  naked  by  one  blast  of  war, 
Bare  as  the  beast  we  know  we  are, 

Not  less  shame  marks  the  man,  and  they 
Who  wear  with  blush  the  fang  and  claw 
May  yet  make  love  their  law. 

For  "  honor  "  lift  we  dripping  hands. 
For  "  home  "  we  loose  the  storm  of  steel 
Till  over  earth  Thy  homeless  reel. 

For  "  country !  " —  Thine  are  all  the  lands. 
We  pray,  but  thou  hast  seen  our  dead 
Who  knew  not  why  they  bled. 

So  warm  were  they,  with  destinies 
Like  straining  stars   that  lustrously 
Bore  Goethes,  Newtons  not  to  be. 

103 


("Long  live  the  king!  ")     So  warm  were  these 
That  dropped,  and  the  cold  moon  alone 
May  count  them,  stone  by  stone. 

Ah,  Courage,  what  slain  dreams  of  men 
Thy  blind,  brave  eyes  here  shut  upon! 
Let  reckoners  to  come  outrun 

This  unstanched  loss.     Dumb  until  then, 
We  wet  Eternity  with  tears; 
The  aching  score  is  hers. 

in 

O,  brothers  of  the  lyre  and  reed, 

Lend  not  a  note  to  this  wild  fray, 

Where  Christ  still  cries  in  agony 
"  They  know  not,  Father,  thou  dost  bleed !  " 

Cast  here  no  song,  like  flower  prest 
To  Slaughter's  seething  breast. 

But  be  the  minstrel  breath  of  Peace; 

For  her  alone  lift  up  your  lyre, 

Mad  with  the  old  celestial  fire, 
Or  on  our  earth  let  music  cease, 

While  keep  we  day  and  night  the  long 
Dumb  funeral  of  song. 

And  if  among  ye  one  should  rise, 
Blind  garlander  of  armored  crime, 
Trailing  the  jungle  in  a  rhyme, 

Let  him  be  set  'neath  blackened  skies 
By  mourning  doors,  and  there  begin 
The  last  chant  of  our  sin. 

Long  gone  the  warrior's  dancing  plume 
That  played  o'er  battle's  early  day; 
Now  must  this  song  be  laid  away, 

104 


Child-relic,  that  was  glory's  bloom; 
And  Man  who  cannot  sing  his  scars, 
Is  he  not  done  with  wars? 

Ay,  hearts  deny  the  feet  of  haste, 
And  as  they  muster,  oh,  they  break ! 
Hate's  loudest  fife  no  more  can  wake 

In  them  the  lust  to  kill  and  waste, 
And  madly  perish,   fool  on   fool, 
That  Might,  the  brute,  may  rule. 

We  hope !  Love  walks  thee  yet,  O  Earth ! 
Through  thy  untunable  days  she  glows 
A  bowed  but  yet  untrampled  rose, 

Wearing  the  fearless  flush  of  birth, — 
Yea,  in  our  songless  shame  doth  see 
Thyself  her  harp  to  ':e! 

Ye  ages  turning  men  to  mould, 

The  past  be  thine,  the  future  ours ! 
God  hear  us !     There  are  infant  powers 

Stronger  than  giant  sins  of  old ! 
To  all  the  hells  that  are  and  were 
Man  rises  challenger. 

Tho'  now  at  final  Autumn  seem 

Our  world  with  blood  and  ashes  wound, 
Unfaltering  Spring  shall  choose  her  ground; 

Man  shall  rebuild  with  bolder  dream, 
The  god  astir  in  every  limb, 
And  earth  be  green  for  him. 

And  Peace  shall  cast  afar  her  seed, 

Shall  set  the  fields  where  skulls  have  lain 
With  altar  herb  for  every  pain, 

105 


With  myrtle  and  with  tuned  reed, 

Till  stars  that  watch  have  sign  to  sing 
A  sister's  flowering. 

Scribner's  Magazine  Olive  Tilford  Dargan 


A  VISION  OF  SPRING 

(Late  Winter,  1915) 

In  the  night,  at  the  sound  of  winter  thunder, 
As  I  brooded  upon  my  wounded  planet 
From  my  country  beyond  the  reddened  waters, 
All  my  thoughts  were  at  once  of  spring  returning. 
Broken  rain  from  the  gulf  upon  my  window 
Passed  down  shadowy  ways  and  there  was  silence. 

Out  of  quietness  light  arose  within  me 

Shedding  luminous  magic  on  the  darkness; 

Moon  on  moon  from  a  cloud  of  vanished  Aprils 

Lit  my  heart  with  a  dream  of  springs  remembered. 

Unborn  beauty  in  flowers  not  yet  risen 

Waved  before  me  in  bright  immortal  pastures 

Till  alone  of  the  year's  four  worlds  of  wonder 

Spring  seemed  tender  and  I  forgot  the  others. 

Only  spring  could  assuage  my  grieving  planet 

Scourged  with  graves  of  the  young  men  darkly  fallen 

In  long  harrowing  straightness  on  the  meadows. 

None  seemed  healing  beside  the  blossom  season; 

When  grass  rises  again  (I  thought)  these  furrows 

Will  lie  hidden  forever  under  beauty; 

On  each  sleeper  a  loveliness  arising 

Soon  shall  cover  his  deep  unwhispered  trouble, 

None  will  signal  of  anguish  from  these  trenches, 

None  find  sorrow  among  the  roots  of  roses; 

One  thing  only  is  needed,  rainbowed  springtime; 

106 


Peace  flows  out  of  it,  all  its  ways  are  peaceful. 
So  I  longed  for  the  time  of  apple  blossoms, 
All  my  dreams  were  upon  the  blowing  lilacs. 

But  some  whirlwind  that  held  the  winter's  secret 
Rose  and  lifting  the  frozen  days  as  curtains 
Showed  me  Time  as  an  upper  sky  of  crystal 
Flushed  with  images  yet  to  be  reflected. 

There  past  lightnings  I  saw  the  coming  season 
Fill  with  shapes  of  the  things  to  be  unfolded; 
But  no  healing  was  there;  I  saw  none  solaced, 
Saw  no  comfort  uplifted  by  the  snowdrop. 
Nothing  beautiful  rose  but  close  above  it 
Shadows  thwarted  its  mercy  for  the  gazer. 

By  the  crocus  and  by  the  valley-lily 

Stood  the  sorrowful,  stood  the  broken-hearted. 

There  they  drank  who  had  thirsted  from  the  autumn 
Bitter  widowings  poured  among  the  gardens. 
By  the  rivers  were  trystings  kept  with  ashes. 
There  I  saw  but  I  could  not  reach  the  children 
Turned  from  happiness,  looking  to  the  trenches; 
Saw  them  taste  of  the  grindings  of  false  anger, 
Saw  behind  them  the  granite  eyes  of  hunger, 
Saw  things  terrible  born  among  the  roses. 

All  was  barren  as  ever  in  the  winter, 
Earth  embattled  against  the  mourning  heavens, 
One  star  warring  against  the  many  lonely, 
Nothing  comforted,  nothing  unendangered. 

And  I  thought  that  I  heard  the  spring  cry  round  me, 
All  about  me  the  voice  of  springtime  crying: 
"  I  am  barren,  barren,  for  Love  has  left  me, 
I  am  nothing  without  his  breath  to  warm  me. 
My  beloved  was  mine  among  the  lilies 

107 


Timeless  dawnings  before  these  heavens  gathered. 

There  he  found  me  and  sealed  me  with  his  kisses, 

There  I  gave  him  the  worlds  unstained,  unwarring. 

But  earth's  children,  the  wilful  children  scorned  him 

Whom  I  call  and  desire  until  the  daybreak. 

I  fly  sorrowful  then  until  his  coming, 

I  pour  solace  to  none  of  all  the  mournful, 

Till  earth's  children,  the  children  sad  receive  him. 

I  have  sorrow,  sorrow,  till  Love's  returning." 

Then  at  last  from  a  deep  behind  the  whirlwind 
One  still  wisdom  arose  and  shook  my  spirit 
And  I  knew,  if  the  golden  spring  comes  loveless, 
Earth  shall  moan  but  the  bitter  moons  flow  empty. 

Though  old  mockeries  plant  the  thorny  truces, 
All  the  fruitage  of  steel  repose  has  fallen. 
Love  comes  weaponless,  all-forgiving,  tender, 
Olive-filleted  for  the  peace  enduring. 

O,  that  endlessly  earth  would  stream  the  heavens 
With  one  music  of  all-assenting  welcome. 
Strong,  miraculous  then  would  spring  reveal  him, 
Swift  Love  walking  on  the  wavings  of  the  crocus, 
Holding  tenderly,  holding  safe  the  broken. 

Dove-low  waters  among  the  kindled  willows 
Then  would  lift  to  anoint  a  dust  unsaddened, 
Piercing  cries  of  the  spirit  from  the  marshes 
Melt  with  chorusings  sweet  upon  the  hillsides, 
Harplike  mysteries  called  through  glowing  orchards, 
Shy,  invisible  laughters  from  the  thickets. 
All  that  uttered  the  dream  while  earth  turned  heedless 
Then  with  freshets  of  song  would  cool  its  fever. 

Unbelievably  then  would  Love  inhabit 

All  green  places  within  the  heart,  outpouring 

108 


Spring  with  thunder  of  all  her  myriad  fountains 

In  one  cup  for  the  healing  of  the  nations. 

Till  in  visionings  all,  as  on  a  mountain, 

Would  with  trembling  above  the  fallen  blindness 

Look  on  Love  and  discern  him  as  the  sunlight, 

Rayed  with  dreams,  and  above  the  treading  glory 

Out  of  opening  heavens  the  dove  descending. 

The  New  Republic  Ridgely  Torrence 


THE  LAUGHTERS 

• 

Spring ! 

And  her  hidden  bugles  up  the  street. 

Spring  —  and  the  sweet 

Laughter  of  winds  at  the  crossing; 

Laughter  of  birds  and  a  fountain  tossing 

Its  hair  in  abandoned  ecstasies. 

Laughter  of  trees. 

Laughter  of  shop-girls  that  giggle  and  blush; 

Laughter  of  the  tug-boat's  impertinent  fife. 

Laughter  followed  by  a  trembling  hush  — 

Laughter  of  love,  scarce  whispered  aloud. 

Then,  stilled  by  no  sacredness  or  strife, 

Laughter  that  leaps  from  the  crowd ; 

Seizing  the  world  in  a  rush. 

Laughter  of  life.  .  .  . 

Earth  takes  deep  breaths  like  a  man  who  had  feared 

he  might  smother, 

Filling  his  lungs  before  bursting  into  a  shout.  .  .  . 
Windows  are  opened  —  curtains  flying  out ; 
Over  the  wash-lines  women  call  to  each  other. 
And,  under  the  calling,  there  surges,  too  clearly  to 

doubt, 
Spring,  with  the  noises 

109 


Of  shrill,  little  voices; 

Joining  in  "  Tag "  and  the  furious  chase 

Of  "  I-spy,"  "  Red  Rover  "  and  "  Prisoner's  Base  " ; 

Of  the  roller-skates  whir  at  the  sidewalk's  slope, 

Of  boys  playing  marbles  and  the  girls  skipping  rope. 

And  there,  down  the  avenue,  behold, 

The  first  true  herald  of  the  Spring  — 

The  hand-organ  gasping  and  wheezily  murmuring 

Its  tunes  ten-years  old.  .  .  . 

And  the  music,  trivial  and  tawdry,  has  freshness  and 

magical  swing. 
And  over  and  under  it, 
During  and  after  — 
The  laughter 
Of  Spring!  .  .  . 

And  lifted  still 

With  the  common  thrill, 

With  the  throbbing  air,  the  tingling  vapor, 

That  rose  like  strong  and  mingled  wines; 

I  turn  to  my  paper, 

And  read  these  lines : 

"  Now  that  the  Spring  is  here, 

The  war  enters  its  bloodiest  phase.  .  .  . 

The  men  are  impatient.  .  .  . 

Bad  roads,  storms  and  the  rigors  of  the  winter 

Have  held,  back  the  contending  armies.  .  .  . 

But  the  recruits  have  arrived. 

And    are     waiting    only     the    -first    days    of    warm 

weather.  ...  '••  .    : 

There  will  be  terrible  -fighting  along  the  whole  line  — 
Now  that  Spring  has  come." 

I  put  the  paper  down.  . 

Something  struck  out  the  sun  —  something  unseen ; 

Something  arose  like  a  dark  wave  to  drown 

110 


The  golden  streets  with  sickly  green. 

Something  polluted  the  blossoming  day 

With  the  touch  of  decay. 

The  music  thinned  and  died; 

People  seemed  hollow-eyed. 

Even  the  faces  of  children,  where  gaiety  lingers, 

Sagged  and  drooped  like  banners  about  to  be  furled  — 

And  Silence  laid  its  bony  fingers 

On  the  lips  of  the  world  .  .  . 

A  grisly  quiet  with  the  power  to  choke; 

A  quiet  that  only  one  thing  broke; 

One  thing  alone  rose  up  thereafter  .  .  . 

Laughter ! 

Laughter  of  streams  running  red. 

Laughter  of  evil  things  in  the  night; 

Vultures  carousing  over  the  dead; 

Laughter  of  ghouls. 

Chuckling  of  idiots,  cursed  with  sight. 

Laughter  of  dark  and  horrible  pools. 

Scream  of  the  bullets'  rattling  mirth, 

Sweeping  the  earth. 

Laugh  of  the  cannon's  poisonous  breath.  .  .  . 

And  over  the  shouts  and  the  wreckage  and  crumbling 

The  raucous  and  rumbling 

Laughter  of  death. 

Death  that  arises  to  sing, — 

Hailing  the  Spring! 

The  Masses  Louis  Untermeyer 

GOD  AND  THE  STRONG  ONES 

"  We  have  made   them   fools   and  weak !  "   said  the 

Strong  Ones: 

"  We  have  bound  them,  they  are  dumb  and  deaf  and 
blind, 

111 


We  have  crushed  them  in  our  hands  like  a  heap  of 

crumbling  sands, 

We  have  left  them  naught  to  seek  or  find: 
They  are  quiet  at  our  feet !  "  said  the  Strong  Ones, 
"  We  have  made  them  one  with  wood  and  stone  and 

clod; 
Serf  and  laborer  and  woman,  they  are  less  than  wise 

or  human !  — " 
"  I  shall  raise  the  weak"  saith  God. 

"  They  are  stirring  in  the  dark !  "  said  the  Strong 

Ones, 
"  They  are  struggling,  who  were  moveless  like  the 

dead, 
We  can   hear  them  cry  and   strain  hand  and   foot 

against  the  chain, 

We  can  hear  their  heavy  upward  tread  — 
What  if  they  are  restless  ?  "  said  the  Strong  Ones, 

"  What  if  they  have  stirred  beneath  the  rod  ? 
Fools  and  weak  and  blinded  men,  we  can  tread  them 

down  again  — " 
"  Shall  ye  conquer  Me?  "  saith  God. 

"  They  are  evil  and  are  brutes !  "  said  the  Strong  Ones, 

"  They  are  ingrates  of  the  ease  and  peace  we  give, 
We  have  stooped  to  them  in  grace  and  they  mock  us 
to  our  face  — 

How  shall  we  give  light  to  them  and  live  ? 
They  are  all  unworthy  grace !  "  said  the  Strong  Ones, 

"  They  that  cowered  at  our  lightest  look  and  nod  — " 
"  This  that  now  ye  pause  and  weigh  of  your  grace 
may  prove  one  day 

Mercy  that  ye  need!  "  saith  God. 

"  They  will  trample  us  and  bind !  "  said  the  Strong 
Ones: 

112 


"  We  are  crushed  beneath  the  blackened  feet  and 

hands ! 
All  the  strong  and  fair  and  great  they  will  crush 

from  out  the  State, 
They  will  whelm  it  like  the  weight  of  pressing 

sands  — 
They  are  maddened  and  are  blind !  "  said  the  Strong 

Ones, 

"  Black  decay  has  come  where  they  have  trod  — 
They  will  break  the  world  in  twain  if  their  hands  are 

on  the  rein — " 
"  What  is  that  to  Me?  "  saith  God. 

"  Ye  have   made   them  in  their  strength,  who   were 

Strong  Ones, 

Ye  have  only  taught  the  blackness  ye  have  known; 
These  are  evil  men  and  blind?     Ay,  but  molded  to 

your  mind! 

How  can  ye  cry  out  against  your  own? 
Ye  have  held  the  light  and  beauty  I  have  given 

Far  above  the  muddied  ways  where  they  must  plod, 
Ye  have  builded  this  your  lord  with  the  lash  and  with 

the  sword  — 
Reap  what  ye  have  sown!  "  saith  God. 

The  Masses  Margaret   Widdemer 


ON  THE  PORCH 

As  I  lie  roofed  in,  screened  in, 
From  the  pattering  rain, 
The  summer  rain  — 
As  I  lie 
Snug  and  dry, 
And  hear  the  birds  complain: 

113 


Oh,  billow  on  billow, 
Oh,  roar  on  roar, 
Over  me  wash 
The  seas  of  war. 
Over  me  —  down  —  down  — 
Lunges   and  plunges 
The  huge  gun  with  its  one  blind  eye, 
The  armored  train, 
And,  swooping  out  of  the  sky, 
The  aeroplane. 
Down  —  down  — 
The  army  proudly  swinging 
Under  gay  flags, 

The  glorious  dead  heaped  up  like  rags, 
A  church  with  bronze  bells  ringing, 
A  city  all  towers, 
Gardens  of  lovers  and  flowers, 
The  round  world  swinging 
In  the  light  of  the  sun: 
All  broken,  undone, 
All  down  —  under 
Black  surges  of  thunder.  .  .  . 

Oh,  billow  on  billow, 
Oh,  roar  on  roar, 
Over  me  wash 
The  seas  of  war.  .  .  . 

As  I  lie  roofed  in,  screened  in, 
From  the  pattering  rain, 
The  summer  rain  — 
As  I  lie 
Snug  and  dry, 
And  hear  the  birds  complain. 

Poetry :  A  Magazine  of  Verse       Harriet  Monroe 
114 


MEN  HAVE  WINGS  AT  LAST 

(Air-Craft  and  the  War) 

"  Wolf,  Wolf-stay-at-home, 
Prowler, —  scout, 
Clanless  and  castaways, 
And  ailing  with  the  drought, 
Out  from  your  hidings, —  hither  to  the  call ; 
Lift  up  your  eyes  to  the  high  wind-fall ! 
Lift  up  your  eyes  from  the  poisoned  spring; 
Overhead, —  overhead !     The  dragon  Thing, 
—  What  should  it  bring  ? 
—  Poising  on  the  wing?  " 

"  Wolf,  Wolf,  Old  one,  I  saw  it,  even  I. 
Yesterday,  yesterday,  the  Thing  came  by 
Prowling  at  the  outpost  of  the  last  lean  wood, 
By  the  gray  waste  ashes  where  the  minster  stood; 
And  out  through  the  cloister  where  the  belfry  fronts 
The  market-place  and  the  town  was  once; 
High, —  high  above  the  bright  wide  square 
And  the  folk  all  flocking  together,  unaware, 
The  Thing-with-the-wings  came  there. 

Brother  Vulture  saw  it 

And  called  me,  as  it  passed: 

'  Look  and  see,  look  and  see, — 

Men  have  wings  at  last.' 

"  By  the  eyeless  belfry  I  saw  it,  overhead, 

Poised  like  a  hawk, —  like  a  storm  unshed. 

Near  the  huddled   doves  there,   from  the   shattered 

cote, 
I  watched  too.  .  .  .  And  it  smote! 

"  Not  a  threat  of  thunder, —  not  an  armed  man, 
Where  the  fury  struck,  and  the  fleet  fire  ran. — 

115 


But  girl-child,  man-child,  mothers   and  their  young, 
Newborn  of  woman,  with  milk  upon  its  tongue; 
Nursling  where  it  clung. 

"  Not  a  talon  reached  they,  yet,  the  lords  of  prey ! 
But  left  the  red  dregs  there,  rent  and  cast  away; 
Fled  from  the  spoils  there,  scattered  things  accurst: 

It  was  not  for  hunger; 

It  was  not  for  thirst. 

"  From  the  eyeless  belfry, 

Brother  Vulture  laughed: 
'  This  is  all  we  have  to  see 

For  his  master-craft? 
—  Old  ones,  and  lean  ones, 

Never  now  to  fast, 

Men  have  wings  at  last! ' 

"Brought  they  any  tidings  for  us  from  the  Sun?" 

"  No,  my  chief,  not  one." 
"  Left  they  not  a  road-sign,  how  the  way  was  won  ?  " 

"  No,  my  chief,  none. 

But  girl-child,  man-child,  creature  yet  unborn, 
Doe  and  fawn  together  so,  weltering  and  torn, 
Newborn  of  woman  where  the  flag-stones  bled ; 
(Better  can  the  vultures  do,  for  the  shamed  dead.) 
Road-dust  sobbing  where  the  lightning  burst  — 

It  was  not  for  hunger; 

It  was  not  for  thirst." 

"  Brought  they  not  some  token  that  the  stars  look 
on  ?  " 

"  No,  my  chief,  none." 

"  Never  yet  a  message  from  the  highways  overhead  ?  " 

"  Brother,  I  have  said." 

116 


"Old  years,  gray  years,  years  of  growing  things, 
We  have  toiled  and  kept  the  watch  with  our  wonder- 
ings; 

But  to  see  what  thing  should  be,  when  that  Men  had 
wings. 

"  Sea-mark,  sea-wall, —  ships  above  the  tide ; 

Mine  and  mole-way  under-earth,  to  have  its  hidden 

pride ;  — 
Not  enough,  not  enough;  more  and  more  beside! 

"  Bridle  for  our  proud-of-mane, —  then  the  triple  yoke ; 
Ox-goad  and  lash  again,  and  bonded  fellow- folk! 
Not  enough ;  not  enough ;  —  for  his  master-stroke. 
Thunder  trapped   and  muttering  and  led  away  for 

thrall; 

Lightnings  leashed  together  then,  at  his  beck  and  call ; 
Not  enough ;  not  enough ;  —  for  his  Wherewithal ! 

"  He  must  look  with  evil  eye 
On  the  spaces  of  the  sky: 

He  must  scheme,  and  try !  — 
While  all  we,  with  dread  and  awe, 
Sheathing  and  unsheathing  claw, 

Watch  apart,  and  prophesy 

That  we  never  saw. — 

"  Wings,  to  seek  his  more-and-more 

Where  we  knew  us  blind; 
Wings  to  make  him  conqueror, 

With  his  master-mind; 
Wings,  that  he  out-watch, —  out-soar, 

Eagle  and  his  kind! 

"  Lo,  the  dream  fulfilled  at  last!  —  And  the  dread  out 
grown, 
Broken,  as  a  bird's  heart;  —  fallen  as  a  stone 

117 


What  was  he,  to  make  afraid? 
•  Hating  all  that  he  had  made  ? 
Hating  all  his  own. 


"  Scatter  to  your  strongholds,  till  the  race  is  run. 

Doe  and  fawn  together,  so,  soon  it  will  be  done. 

Never  now,  never  now,  Ship  without  a  mast, 

In  the  harbors  of  the  Sun,  do  you  make  fast! 
But  the  floods  shall  cleanse  again 
Every  blackened  trail  of  Men, — 
Men  with  wings,  at  last !  " 

Boston  Transcript  Josephine  Preston  Peabody 


SURE,  IT'S  FUN! 

What  fun  to  be  a  soldier! 


— Everykid. 


Sure,  it's  fun  to  be  a  soldier !     Oh,  it's  fun,  fun,  fun, 

Upon  an  iron  shoulder-blade  to  tote  a  feather  gun; 

To  hike  with  other  brave  galoots  in  easy-going  army- 
boots  ; 

To  pack  along  a  one-ounce  sack,  the  commissary  on 
your  track; 

To  tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  to  a  right-and-ready  camp! 

Fun?  —  Sure,  it's  fun,  just  the  finest  ever,  son! 

Yes,  it's  fun  to  be  a  soldier !     Oh,  it's  fun,  fun,  fun, 
To  loaf  along  a  level  road  beneath  a  cloudless  sun 
Or  over  fields  of  golden  grain,  kept  cool  by  puffs  of 

wind  and  rain; 
Then  richly,  more-than-fully,  fed,  to  stretch  upon  a 

downy  bed 

And  sleep,  sleep,  sleep,  while  the  stay-at-homes  weep ! 
Fun?  —  Sure,  it's  fun,  just  the  finest  ever,  son! 

118 


Oh,  it's  fun  to  be  a  soldier !     Oh,  it's  fun,  fun,  fun, 
To  catch  the  silly  enemy  and  get  'em  on  the  run ; 
To  here  and  there  blow  off  a  head  with  just  a  bit  of 

chuckling  lead; 
To  bayonet  a  foolish  bloke  at  hide-and-seek  in  trench 

and  smoke; 

To  shoot,  shoot,  shoot,  till  they've  got  no  legs  to  scoot ! 
Fun?  —  sure,  it's  fun,  just  the  finest  ever,  son! 

God,  it's  fun  to  be  a  soldier!  Oh,  it's  fun,  fun,  fun, 
To  lie  out  still  and  easy  when  your  day's  sport's  done ; 
With  not  a  thing  to  worry  for,  nor  anything  to  hurry 

for; 

Not  hungry,  thirsty,  tired,  but  a  hero  much-admired, 
Just  dead,  dead,  dead,  like  Jack  and  Bill  and  Fred! 
Fun?  —  Sure,  it's  fun,  just  the  finest  ever,  son! 

Boston  Transcript  Richard  Butler  Glaenzer 


HARVEST  MOON:     1914 

Over  the  twilight  field, 

The  overflowing  field, — 

Over  the  glimmering  field, 

And  bleeding  furrows  with  their  sodden  yield 

Of  sheaves  that  still  did  writhe, 

After  the  scythe; 

The  teeming  field  and  darkly  overstrewn 

With  all  the  garnered  fulness  of  that  noon  — 

Two  looked  upon  each  other. 

One  was  a  Woman  men  had  called  their  mother ; 

And  one,  the  Harvest-Moon. 

And  one,  the  Harvest-Moon, 
Who  stood,  who  gazed 

119 


On  those  unquiet  gleanings  where  they  bled; 
Till  the  lone  Woman  said : 

"  But  we  were  crazed  .  .  . 

We  should  laugh  now  together,  I  and  you, 

We  two. 

You,  for  your  ever  dreaming  it  was  worth 

A  star's  while  to  look  on  and  light  the  Earth; 

And  I,  forever  telling  to  my  mind, 

Glory  it  was,  and  gladness,  to  give  birth 

To  humankind ! 

Yes,  I,  that  ever  thought  it  not  amiss 

To  give  the  breath  to  men, 

For  men  to  slay  again: 

Lording  it  over  anguish  but  to  give 

My  life,  that  men  might  live 

For  this. 

You  will  be  laughing  now,  remembering 

I  called  you  once  Dead  World,  and  barren  thing, 

Yes,  so  we  named  you  then, 

You,  far  more  wise 

Than  to  give  life  to  men." 

Over  the  field,  that  there 

Gave  back  the  skies 

A  scattered  upward  stare 

From  blank  white  eyes, — 

The  furrowed  field  that  lay 

Striving  awhile,  through  many  a  bleeding  dune 

Of  throbbing  clay,  but  dumb  and  quiet  soon, 

She  looked ;  and  went  her  way  — 

The  Harvest-Moon. 

Boston  Transcript      Josephine  Preston  Peabody 


120 


THE  WIND  IN  THE  CORN 

Summer  silence  dreaming  downward  with  the  cawing 

of  the  crow, 
Where  the  woodlands  mount  in  billows,  where  the 

clearings  bask  and  glow, 
And  the  wind,  the  wind  that  hovers  all  the  scented 

hills  between, 
Ripples    the    embattled    cornfields,    dashes,    slashes 

through  the  green. 
Here  and  thither,  yon  and  hither,  as  the  long  leaves 

slat  and  slither, 
As  the  breathings  fall  and  rise,  as  the  shadow  flows 

and  flies, 

Wind  from  the  embattled  ages  that  have  come  and  gone 
nowhither, 

A  wind  in  the  corn  that  cries: 
"  Oft  of  old  your  fathers  hearkened  in  our  rustle  on 

the  breeze 

"  To  the  song  of  all  the  future,  to  the  fruitful  cen 
turies. 

"  From  the  soil  whence  we  were  born, 
"  From  the  land  where  ye  were  born, 
"  Shall  a  foeman  reap  the  harvest  in  the  sowers'  spite 

and  scorn  ?  " 

Oh,  eastward  out  of  Shasta  to  Monadnock  and  the 
morn 

Cries  the  wind  in  the  corn! 


"  Sprang  we  by  the  settler's  cabin,  with  the  pioneers 
went  forth 

"  By  the  wash  of  southern  rivers,  through  the  lake 
land  of  the  North. 

"  Axe  and  rifle  win  our  pathway,  at  their  call  the  wild 
departs, 

121 


"  And  we  wave  from  furrows  hallowed  by  the  blood  of 

warrior  hearts. 
"  Here  and  thither,  yon  and  hither,  wend  the 

fighters  keen  and  lither, 
"  And  the  forest  falls  and  dies,  and  the  lurking 

savage  flies. 

"  Has  their  hardihood  departed  like  the  wind  that 
blows  nowhither? 

"  The  wind  in  the  corn  that  cries ; 
"  Fair  and  broad  the  fields  they  planted ;  robber  hands 

are  overseas. 

"  What  but  naked  steel  ensureth  peace  to  riches  like 
to  these? 

"  From  the  soil  whence  we  were  born, 
"  From  the  land  where  ye  were  born, 
"  Shall  a  sword  destroy  the  harvest  in  the  sowers'  spite 

and  scorn  ?  " 

Oh,  from  Lusk  to  Opelousas  and  the  marish  lands  for 
lorn 

Cries  the  wind  in  the  corn! 

"  We  that  nerved  your  fathers'  sinews,  we  that  nour 
ished  armed  men, 

"  Shall  we  feed  unwarlike  traders  when  assault  in 
tends  again? 

"  Learn  from  us  —  our  bannered  armies  marshalled 
in   their  long  array  — 

"  Naught  but  trained  and  ordered  legions  can  abide 

the  fateful  day. 
"  Call  them  hither,  call  them  thither,  lest  your 

manhood  shrink  and  wither, 
"  Lest  your  storied  empire  dies,  lest  your  name, 
your  honor  flies  — 

"  Empty  name  and  empty  honor  —  like  the  wind  that 
blows  nowhither, 

"  The  wind  in  the  corn  that  cries ; 

122 


"  Past  are  ancient  times  and  simple  when  each  hour 

could  face  its  need. 

"  Greatness  greatly  dealing  gathers  forces  equal  to 
the  deed ! 

"  From  the  soil  whence  we  were  born, 
"  From  the  land  where  ye  were  born, 
"  Shall  the  skilful  sword  be  lacking,  shall  your  weak 
ness  be  a  scorn?  " 

Oh,  from  Navesink  to  Napa  through  the  great  peaks 
rent  and  torn 

Cries  the  wind  in  the  corn! 

Scribner's  Magazine  E.  Button 


BATTLE  SLEEP 

Somewhere,  O  sun,  some  corner  there  must  be 
Thou  visitest,  where  down  the  strand 

Quietly,  still,  the  waves  go  out  to  sea 

From  the  green  fringes  of  a  pastoral  land. 

Deep  in  the  orchard-bloom  the  roof-trees  stand, 
The  brown  sheep  graze  along  the  bay, 

And  through  the  apple-boughs  above  the  sand 
The  bees'  hum  sounds  no  fainter  than  the  spray. 

There  through  uncounted  hours  declines  the  day 
To  the  low  arch  of  twilight's  close, 

And,  just  as  night  about  the  moon  grows  gray, 
One  sail  leans  westward  to  the  fading  rose. 

Giver  of  dreams,  O  thou  with  scatheless  wing 
Forever  moving  through  the  fiery  hail, 

To  flame-seared  lids  the  cooling  vision  bring, 
And  let  some  soul  go  seaward  with  that  sail! 

Century  Magazine  Edith  Wharton 

123 


THE  BOMBARDMENT 

Slowly,  without  force,  the  rain  drops  into  the  city. 
It  stops  a  moment  on  the  carved  head  of  Saint  John, 
then  slides  on  again,  slipping  and  trickling  over  his 
stone  cloak.  It  splashes  from  the  lead  conduit  of  a 
gargoyle,  and  falls  from  it  in  turmoil  on  the  stones  in 
the  Cathedral  square.  Where  are  the  people,  and  why 
does  the  fretted  steeple  sweep  about  in  the  sky? 
Boom !  The  sound  swings  against  the  rain.  Boom, 
again!  After  it,  only  water  rushing  in  the  gutters, 
and  the  turmoil  from  the  spout  of  the  gargoyle.  Si 
lence.  Ripples  and  mutters.  Boom ! 

The  room  is  damp,  but  warm.  Little  flashes  swarm 
about  from  the  fire-light.  The  lustres  of  the  chan 
delier  are  bright,  and  clusters  of  rubies  leap  in  the 
Bohemian  glasses  on  the  etagere.  Her  hands  are  rest 
less,  but  the  white  masses  of  her  hair  are  quite  still. 
Boom !  Will  it  never  cease  to  torture,  this  iteration ! 
Boom !  The  vibration  shatters  a  glass  on  the 
etagere.  It  lies  there  formless  and  glowing,  with  all. 
its  crimson  gleams  shot  out  of  pattern,  spilled,  flowing 
red,  blood-red.  A  thin  bell-note  pricks  through  the 
silence.  A  door  creaks.  The  old  lady  speaks: 
"  Victor,  clear  away  that  broken  glass."  "  Alas ! 
Madame,  the  Bohemian  glass !  "  "  Yes,  Victor,  one 
hundred  years  ago  my  father  bought  it — "  Boom! 
The  room  shakes,  the  servitor  quakes.  Another  gob 
let  shivers  and  breaks  !  Boom ! 

It  rustles  at  the  window-pane,  the  smooth,  stream 
ing  rain,  and  he  is  shut  within  its  clash  and  murmur. 
Inside  is  his  candle,  his  table,  his  ink,  his  pen,  and 
his  dreams.  He  is  thinking,  and  the  walls  are  pierced 
with  beams  of  sunshine,  slipping  through  young  green. 

124 


A  fountain  tosses  itself  up  at  the  blue  sky,  and  through 
the  spattered  water  in  the  basin  he  can  see  copper 
carp,  lazily  floating  among  cold  leaves.  A  wind-harp 
in  a  cedar-tree  grieves  and  whispers,  and  words  blow 
into  his  brain,  bubbled,  iridescent,  shooting  up  like 
flowers  of  fire,  higher  and  higher.  Boom!  The 
flame-flowers  snap  on  their  slender  stems.  The  foun 
tain  rears  up  in  long  broken  spears  of  disheveled 
water  and  flattens  into  the  earth.  Boom !  And  there 
is  only  the  room,  the  table,  the  candle,  and  the  sliding 
rain.  Again,  Boom !  —  Boom !  —  Boom !  He  stuffs 
his  fingers  into  his  ears.  He  sees  corpses,  and  cries 
out  in  fright.  Boom !  It  is  night,  and  they  are  shell 
ing  the  city !  Boom !  Boom ! 

A  child  wakes  and  is  afraid,  and  weeps  in  the 
darkness.  What  has  made  the  bed  shake  ?  "Mother, 
where  are  you  ?  I  am  awake."  "  Hush,  my  Darling, 
I  am  here."  "  But,  Mother,  something  so  queer  hap 
pened,  the  room  shook."  Boom!  "  Oh!  What  is  it? 
What  is  the  matter  ?  "  Boom !  "  Where  is  Father  ? 
I  am  so  afraid."  Boom !  The  child  sobs  and  shrieks. 
The  house  trembles  and  creaks.  Boom ! 

Retorts,  globes,  tubes,  and  phials  lie  shattered. 
All  his  trials  oozing  across  the  floor.  The  life  that 
was  his  choosing,  lonely,  urgent,  goaded  by  a  hope,  all 
gone.  A  weary  man  in  a  ruined  laboratory,  that  was 
his  story.  Boom!  Gloom  and  ignorance,  and  the  jig 
of  drunken  brutes.  Diseases  like  snakes  crawling  over 
the  earth,  leaving  trails  of  slime.  Wails  from  people 
burying  their  dead.  Through  the  window  he  can  see 
the  rocking  steeple.  A  ball  of  fire  falls  on  the  lead 
of  the  roof,  and  the  sky  tears  apart  on  a  spike  of  flame. 
Up  the  spire,  behind  the  lacings  of  stone,  zig-zagging 
in  and  out  of  the  carved  tracings,  squirms  the  fire. 

125 


It  spouts  like  yellow  wheat  from  the  gargoyles,  coils 
round  the  head  of  Saint  John,  and  aureoles  him  in 
light.  It  leaps  into  the  night  and  hisses  against  the 
rain.  The  Cathedral  is  a  burning  stain  on  the  white, 
wet  night. 

Boom!  The  Cathedral  is  a  torch,  and  the  houses 
next  to  it  begin  to  scorch.  Boom!  The  Bohemian 
glass  on  the  etagere  is  no  longer  there.  Boom!  A 
stalk  of  flame  sways  against  the  red  damask  curtains. 
The  old  lady  cannot  walk.  She  watches  the  creeping 
stalk  and  counts.  Boom !  —  Boom !  —  Boom ! 

The  poet  rushes  into  the  street,  and  the  rain  wraps 
him  in  a  sheet  of  silver.  But  it  is  threaded  with  gold 
and  powdered  with  scarlet  beads.  The  city  burns. 
Quivering,  spearing,  thrusting,  lapping,  streaming, 
run  the  flames.  Over  roofs,  and  walls,  and  shops, 
and  stalls.  Smearing  its  gold  on  the  sky  the  fire 
dances,  lances  itself  through  the  doors,  and  lisps  and 
chuckles  along  the  floors. 

The  child  wakes  again  and  screams  at  the  yellow- 
petaled  flower  flickering  at  the  window.  The  little 
red  lips  of  flames  creep  along  the  ceiling  beams. 

The  old  man  sits  among  his  broken  experiments  and 
looks  at  the  burning  Cathedral.  Now  the  streets  are 
swarming  with  people.  They  seek  shelter,  and  crowd 
into  cellars.  They  shout  and  call,  and  over  all,  slowly 
and  without  force,  the  rain  drops  into  the  city. 
Boom!  And  the  steeple  crashes  down  among  the 
people.  Boom!  Boom,  again!  The  water  rushes 
along  the  gutters.  The  fire  roars  and  mutters.  Boom ! 

Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse  Amy  Lowell 


126 


THE  PYRES 

Pyres  in  the  night,  in  the  night ! 

And  the  roaring  yellow  and  red. 
Trooper,  trooper,  why  so  white? 

We  are  out  to  gather  our  dead. 
We  have  brought  dry  boughs  from  the  bloody  wood 

And  the  torn  hill-side; 
We  have  felled  great  trunks,  wet  with  blood 

Of  brothers  that  died; 

We  have  piled  them  high  for  a  flaming  bed, 
Hemlock  and  ash  and  pine  for  a  bed, 
A  throne  in  the  night,  a  throne  for  a  bed  — 
And  we  go  to  gather  our  dead. 

There  where  the  oaks  loom,  dark  and  high, 

Over  the  somber  hill, 

Body  on  body,  cold  and  still, 
Under  the  stars  they  lie. 
There  where  the  silver  river  runs, 

Careless  and  calm  as  fate, 
Mowed,  mowed  by  the  terrible  guns, 

The   stricken  brothers  wait. 
There  by  the  smoldering  house,  and  there 
Where  the  red  smoke  hangs  on  the  heavy  air, 
Under  the  ruins,  under  the  hedge, 
Cheek  by  cheek  at  the  forest-edge; 
Back  to  breast,  three  men  deep, 

Hearing  not  bugle  or  drum, 
In  the  desperate  trench  they  died  to  keep, 
Under  the  starry  dome  they  sleep, 

Murmuring,  "  Brothers,  come !  " 

This  way !     I  heard  a  call 
Like  a  stag's  when  he  dies. 

127 


Under  the  willows  I  saw  him  fall. 

Under  the  willows  he  lies. 
Give  me  your  hand.     Raise  him  up. 

Lift  his  head.     Strike  a  light. 
This  morning  we  shared  a  crust  and  a  cup. 

He  wants  no  supper  to-night. 
Take  his  feet.     Here  the  shells 

Broke  all  day  long, 
Moaning  and  shrieking  hell's 

Bacchanalian  song! 
Last  night  he  helped  me  bear 

Men  to  hell's  feting. 
To-morrow,  maybe,  somewhere, 

We,  too,  shall  lie  waiting. 

Pyres  in  the  night,  in  the  night! 

Weary  and  sick  and  dumb, 
Under  the  flickering,  faint  starlight 

The  drooping  gleaners  come. 
Out  of  the  darkness,  dim 

Shadowy  shadow-bearers, 
Dragging  into  the  bale  fire's  rim 

Pallid  death-farers. 

Pyres  in  the  night,  in  the  night! 

In  the  plain,  on  the  hill. 
No  volleys  for  their  last  rite. 

We  need  our  powder  —  to  kill. 
High  on  their  golden  bed, 

Pile  up  the  dead! 

Pyres  in  the  night,  in  the  night ! 

Torches,  piercing  the  gloom! 
Look!     How  the  sparks  take  flight! 

Stars,  stars,  make  room! 

128 


Smoke,  that  was  bone  and  blood ! 

Hark!     The  deep  roar. 
It  is  the  souls  telling  God 

The  glory  of  WAR ! 

The  Outlook  Hermann  Hagedorn 


SING,  YE  TRENCHES! 

Sing,  ye  trenches  bloody-lipped! 
Sing!     For  into  you  has  slipped 
Lycidas,  dead  ere  his  prime. 
All  ye  cruel  trenches,  sing! 
Under  frost  and  under  rime 
All  his  body  beautiful, 
All  his  body  wonderful, 
Low  hath  lain.     Now,  cunningly, 
April,  with  sweet  mystery, 
Molds  the  trenches  horror-lipped 
Into  chalices  of  spring. 

Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas? 
See,  across  the  hideous  gashes 
Soft  green  fire  of  April  flashes, 
Starred  with  windflowers  delicate; 
Gemmed  with  purple  violet; 
Roseate  with  crimson  glow 
Where  again  his  pulses  blow 
In  young  clover.     For  his  sake 
See  the  budding  crocus  break 
Into  flame;  and  hear  the  grass, 
Green-tongued,  sing  for  Lycidas ! 

Sing,  ye  gaping  wounds  of  earth! 
Tomb-like,  ye  have  taken  him, 
Cradled  him,  distilled  him; 

129 


Womb-like,  ye  have  brought  to  birth 
Myriad  flowers  and  fragrances. 
Requiemed  with  spring  he  lies. 
God,  who  took  unto  His  heart 
All  his  throbbing,  vital  part, 
Sowed  his  body  in  the  earth. 
Let  the  trumpets  of  the  grass 
Paean  shout  for  Lycidas ! 
The  Outlook  Helen  Coale  Crew 


1915 

Hang  the  hills  with  black, 

And  blacken  the  early  violets  with  the  blood  of  the 

young : 

What  want  we  with  a  Spring  of  fragrant  farmlands, 
Gardens,  smokes  of  the  brush, 
And  healing  rains? 
Let  the  birds,  the  winds  and  the  sea 
Sing  no  more  the  loves  of  mating,  and  the  marriage 

chants  of  Spring  .  .  . 
But  mournfully  pipe  dirges  of  broad-cast  tragic  death. 

What  want  we  with  the  Spring? 

We  have  cast  in  roaring  foundries   the  dark-bored 

steel, 
And  like  gods  have  snatched  the  chemical  might  of  the 

Earth, 
And  devised  a  killing  and  a  crime  .  .  . 

Out  of  the  murder  of  our  hearts,  we  have  wrought 

great  havoc  .  .  . 

Sinking  of  ships  at  sea,  and  the  toppling  of  cities, 
And  the  mowing  of  living  hosts ! 
What  want  we  with  the  Spring? 

130 


Patiently  the  millions  wrought: 

With  sacrificial  hands,  and  suffering  vision, 

Chaos  became  a  city,  a  ship,  a  school  .  .  . 

Up  was  lifted  the  child,  and  the  young  mind  scru 
tinized 

That  not  a  life  might  be  lost  .  .  . 

How  unfold  these  buds?  how  grow  these  possibili 
ties? 

Steadily  the  gates  of  pain  were  battered, 
And  the  gates  of  darkness  assailed, 
And  the  waste  of  the  spirit  striven  with. 

And  the  young  went  forth  crying:    Spring!  Spring! 
Hope   dawns !     A  glory ! 
We  are  shaping  a  marvel  in  the  skies ! 
Man  becomes  god:  this  is  the  morning  and  the  first 
day  of  Creation! 

Spring  ? 

The  hosts  contend  together: 

Cities  are  become  dust-heaps: 

The  young  god,  the  Creator, 

Has  turned  fury  and  fiend,  the  Destroyer  .  .  . 

Strange  sowing  of  seed  goes  on: 
This  is  the  year  when  we  sow  the  Earth  with  the  flesh 
of  the  young  men  .  .  . 

Black!  black!  black! 

We  have  blasted  away  in  a  day, 

Our  own  children, 

Our  own  creation  .  .  . 

We  have  gone  mad,  killing  the  young, 
Slaying  the  hope  of  the  world  .  .  . 

131 


Now  youth  leaves  his   dream   and  his   toil  and  his 

quickening  love 
To  kill  or  to  die  ... 

0  short-lived  generation ! 
Debauch  of  blood! 
Folly  and  sin! 

No  more  of  it ! 

Take  away  Spring,  and  give  over  the  planet  to  a 
moon's  death;  a  frozen  death: 

Our  Earth  deserves  extinction, 
With  her  rotten  breed  of  men  .  .  . 

So  I  cried,  and  in  rage  and  grief  went  forth  through 

the  city, 
The  New-World  City  of  Peace  .  .  . 

1  passed  a  prison  .  .  . 
Broken  men  decayed  in  the  damp 
I  passed  a  mill  .  .  . 

Children  and  pale  women  peered  wistfully  from  the 

windows  .  .  . 
I  passed  a  hospital  .  .  . 

Human  wreckage  sunned  there  beside  the  morgue. 
I  walked  through  stinking  slums  .  .  . 
Children  nosed  in  the  garbage. 

Then  I  went  to  the  home  of  a  friend, 

And  found  darkness  .  .  . 

Husband  and  wife  were  slowly  slaying  each  other: 

Slaying  with  love. 

The  woman  whispered  to  me: 

"  God !     Could  I  go  to  the  war  —  go  to  the  war  and 
be  killed ! " 

132 


Then  I  looked  in  my  own  breast, 

And  I  said:    What  war  is  this  I  am  bitter  against? 

Behold,  the  lyddite  of  my  soul  that  destroys  peace 
about  me, 

Behold,  the  bayonet  of  my  hate,  and  the  shrapnel  of 
my  bestiality: 

The  contending  armies  of  lusts  and  shames  and  in 
trigues  : 

The  sentries  of  dark  sins :  the  spies  of  despisal  .  .  . 

In  this  little  world  of  Self  I  saw  the  big: 

In  my  own  breast  I  found  war  and  disaster  and  ship 
sinking, 

The  death  of  faith  and  of  hope  .  .  . 

Behold,  in  myself  I  found  Man: 

Who  since  the  beginning  has  been  this  advancing  con 
flict  .  .  . 

Ever  thus  .  .  . 

Then  is  it  marvel  no  peace  is  on  Earth? 

Where  is  the  Man  of  Peace? 

Shall  I  be  crushed  then  by  the  obvious  horror  of  blood 

and  carrion? 
By  wholesale  carnage  ? 

Dark  in  the  world  of  darkness,  I  left  the  city: 

And  then  I  saw, 

O  ancient  and  new  miracle  .  .  . 

Resistless,  laughing  at  death,  overruling  decay, 

Earth  silently  lifted  life  .  .  . 

Impassive  and  calm  lay  the  heaps  of  the  hills, 

And  steadily  rising, 

Green  pierced  through,  and  the  soil  steamed,  and  the 

birds  nested. 

There  was  the  farmer-boy  plowing, 
And  there  the  young  wife  airing  the  house, 

133 


And  close  to  the  handled  mud  the  absorbed  faces  of 

children  .  .  . 
Lo,  thought  I,  Earth  holds  to  her  hope ! 

Then  I  greeted  the  hills  .  .  . 

O  let  them  be  mantled  with  green,  I  said, 

And  let  beauty  hang  from  the  boughs  .  .  . 

Increase  the  laughter  of  children, 

String  the  cities  with  color  and  glory, 

Lift  a  music  .  .  . 

Once  were  the  heavens  a  blackness, 

Then  blazed  a  sun  forth  .  .  . 

In  the  Earth's  blackness,  O  tragic  straggler,  roll  forth 

your  splendid  sun 
Fight  darkness  with  light, 
Destruction  with  creation. 

Have  cities  toppled  and  ships  been  sunk? 

Build!     Build! 

Is  youth  slain? 

Beget  new  children  of  flesh  and  toil: 

Beget  a  new  self  of  splendor  .  .  . 

Have  hopes  died? 

Kindle  new  ones  .  .  . 

Has  man  fallen? 

You,  man,  arise! 

The  Enemy  James  Oppenheim 


THE  WHITE  SHIPS  AND  THE  RED 

With  drooping  sail  and  pennant 

That  never  a  wind  may  reach, 
They  float  in  sunless  waters 

Beside  a  sunless  beach. 

134 


Their  mighty  masts  and  funnels 

Are  white  as  driven  snow, 
And  with  a  pallid  radiance 

Their  ghostly  bulwarks  glow. 

Here  is  a  Spanish  galleon 

That  once  with  gold  was  gay, 
Here  is  a  Roman  trireme 

Whose  hues  outshone  the  day. 
But  Tyrian  dyes  have  faded 

And  prows  that  once  were  bright 
With  rainbow  stains  wear  only 

Death's  livid,  dreadful  white. 

White  as  the  ice  that  clove  her 

That  unforgotten  day, 
Among  her  pallid  sisters 

The  grim  Titanic  lay. 
And  through  the  leagues  above  her 

She  looked,  aghast,  and  said: 
"  What  is  this  living  ship  that  comes 

Where  every  ship  is  dead  ?  " 

The  ghostly  vessels  trembled 

From  ruined  stern  to  prow; 
What  was  this  thing  of  terror 

That  broke  their  vigil  now  ? 
Down  through  the  startled  ocean 

A  mighty  vessel  came, 
Not  white,  as  all  dead  ships  must  be, 

But  red,  like  living  flame ! 

The  pale  green  waves  about  her 
Were  swiftly,  strangely  dyed, 

By  the  great  scarlet  stream  that  flowed 
From  out  her  wounded  side. 

135 


And  all  her  decks  were  scarlet 

And  all  her  shattered  crew. 
She  sank  among  the  white  ghost  ships 

And  stained  them  through  and  through. 

The  grim  Titanic  greeted  her 

"  And  who  art  thou?  "  she  said; 
"  Why  dost  thou  join  our  ghostly  fleet 

Arrayed  in  living  red? 
We  are  the  ships  of  sorrow 

Who  spend  the  weary  night, 
Until  the  dawn  of  Judgment  Day, 

Obscure  and  still  and  white." 

"  Nay,"  said  the  scarlet  visitor, 

"  Though  I  sink  through  the  sea 
A  ruined  thing  that  was  a  ship 

I  sink  not  as  did  ye. 
For  ye  met  with  your  destiny 

By  storm  or  rock  or  fight, 
So  through  the  lagging  centuries 

Ye  wear  your  robes  of  white. 

"  But  never  crashing  iceberg 

Nor  honest  shot  of  foe, 
Nor  hidden  reef  has  sent  me 

The  way  that  I  must  go. 
My  wound  that  stains  the  waters, 

My  blood  that  is  like  flame, 
Bear  witness  to  a  loathly  deed, 

A  deed  without  a  name. 

"  I  went  not  forth  to  battle, 

I  carried  friendly  men, 
The  children  played  about  my  decks, 

The  women  sang  —  and  then  — 

136 


And  then  —  the  sun  blushed  scarlet 

And  Heaven  hid  its  face, 
The  world  that  God  created 

Became  a  shameful  place! 

"  My  wrong  cries  out  for  vengeance, 

The  blow  that  sent  me  here 
Was  aimed  in  Hell.  My  dying  scream 

Has  reached  Jehovah's  ear. 
Not  all  the  seven  oceans 

Shall  wash  away  the  stain; 
Upon  a  brow  that  wears  a  crown 

I  am  the  brand  of  Cain." 

When  God's  great  voice  assembles 

The  fleet  on  Judgment  Day, 
The  ghosts  of  ruined  ships  will  rise 

In  sea  and  strait  and  bay. 
Though  they  have  lain  for  ages 

Beneath  the  changeless  flood, 
They  shall  be  white  as  silver. 

But  one  —  shall  be  like  blood. 

New  York  Times  Magazine  Joyce  Kilmer 


THE  RETURN  OF  AUGUST 

Darkly  a  mortal  age  has  come  and  gone 
And  man  grown  ancient  in  a  single  year. 
August !     The  summer  month  is  blasted  sere 
With  memories  earth  bleeds  to  dream  upon. 

To  dream  upon !     Ah,  were  we  dreaming  then 
Ere  Europe,  blindfold,  lulled  in  holiday, 
Harkened  the  sudden  thunder  through  her  play 
And  fumbling  held  her  breath  to  hark  again, 

137 


Or  is  this  blighted  year  our  dream  ?  —  How  swift 
The  blackening  tempest  fell !     How  vast,  through  fire 
And  cloud  of  Belgium's  rape,  a  planet's  ire 
Flared  on  that  pall  of  shame,  while  through  the  rift 

The  livid  sorrows  racked  our  sympathies  ! 

For  still  thought  burned  unclouded:  Right  and  wrong 

Strove  for  the  palm  as  in  an  epic  song; 

And  so  we  poured  our  succor  overseas, 

Neutral  in  act  but  never  in  our  souls, 
Yet  guarding  the  brave  goal  of  peace.     Till  soon  — 
Slow-warping  to  the  waning  year's  blind  moon  — 
The  tide  ebbed  back,  and  in  the  freezing  shoals 

We  stared  upon  the  dead  —  the  dead,  whose  mothers 
Suckled  them  still  in  dreams.     Stark  mid  the  stench 
And  yellow  choke  that  reeked  from  shell  and  trench 
They  lay  together  there  —  mere  boys,  and  brothers. 

Were  these  the  epic  hosts  of  Wrong  and  Right 
Whose  clash  had  whirled  us  in  their  spirits'  war? 
These  silent  boys !     What  had  they  battled  for 
To  lie  such  still  bedfellows  in  the  night? 

Must  breath  of  dying  brothers  wake  the  brass 
That  thrills  the  call  to  arms  ?     Shall  ghostly  lips 
Summon  the  living  to  the  dark  eclipse 
And  all  their  dearest  shout  to  see  them  pass 

Merely  for  this :    That  these  who  might  have  shared 
A  simple  handclasp  share  a  bloodied  sod  ?  — 
So  for  a  while  we  gazed  and  questioned  God : 
A  haunted  while :  for  dimly  as  we  stared 

Far  off  we  heard  the  multitudinous  cry 
Of  mangled  Poland  like  a  cry  in  sleep, 

•      138 


And,  Serbia  fever-panting,  and  the  deep 
Half-breathed  self-doubt  of  prisoned  Germany, 

And  still  far  tidings  blew,  but  that  first  spark 
Of  August  splendor  burned  in  them  no  more; 
Pity  and  sorrow  palled,  and  custom  wore 
A  deeper  callus  and  a  blur  more  dark, 

Till  sudden  —  the  Lusitania!    Lightnings  shot 
The  unhallowed  message,  and  a  shuddering  fire 
Leapt  from  our  long-charred  hearts  —  a  glowing  spire, 
And  Europe's  sword  swung  nearer  to  the  knot 

That  ties  the  bonds  of  peace.     And  now  —  And  now 
The  summer  steals  again  toward  winter's  sleep. 
The  reaping  time  draws  near  —  ah,  what  to  reap  ? 
And  spring,  that  lurks  beyond,  comes  hither  —  how? 


Still,  O  my  Country,  while  we  may,  look  back ! 
The  blighted  year  cries  from  the  charnel  grass: 
Must  breath  of  dying  brothers  wake  the  brass 
That  thrills  the  call  to  arms?  —  A  blood-sered  track 

Leads  backward  to  that  other  August  day 
Prowled  by  the  still  unglutted  Minotaur; 
But  we,  who  watch  to  slay  that  beast  of  War, 
Shall  we  hunt  him  or  those  he  mangles  ?  —  Say: 

For  reason  has  its  ire  more  just  than  hate; 
Imagination  has  its  master  hour, 
And  pity  its  foil,  and  mother-love  its  power 
Mightier  than  blood-lust  and  more  obdurate. 

My  Country!  poised  in  forward  visioning, 
With  pity,  love  and  reason  let  us  pray 

139 


Our  lives  shall  serve  to  cleanse  this  August  day !  — 

The  summer  wanes :  the  ploughman  comes  with  spring. 
The  Independent  Percy  Mackaye 


PRAYER  FOR  PEACE 

Now  these  were  visions  in  the  night  of  war : 
I  prayed  for  peace;  God,  answering  my  prayer, 
Sent  down  a  previous  plague  on  humankind, 
A  black  and  tumorous  plague  that  softly  slew 
Till  nations  and  their  armies  were  no  more  — 

And  there  was  perfect  peace  .  .  . 
But  I  awoke,  wroth  with  high  God  and  prayer. 

I  prayed  for  peace;  God,  answering  my  prayer, 
Decreed  the  Truce  of  Life:  —  Wings  in  the  sky 
Fluttered  and  fell;  the  quick,  bright  ocean  things 
Sank  to  the  ooze;  the  footprints  in  the  woods 
Vanished ;  the  freed  brute  from  the  abattoir 
Starved  on  green  pastures;  and  within  the  blood 
The  death-work  at  the  root  of  living  ceased ; 
And  men  gnawed  clods  and  stones,  blasphemed  and 

died  — 

And  there  was  perfect  peace  .  .  . 
But  I  awoke,  wroth  with  high  God  and  prayer. 

I  prayed  for  peace ;  God,  answering  my  prayer, 
Bowed  the  free  neck  beneath  a  yoke  of  steel, 
Dumbed  the  free  voice  that  springs  in  lyric  speech, 
Killed  the  free  art  that  glows  on  all  mankind, 
And  made  one  iron  nation  lord  of  earth, 
Which  in  the  monstrous  matrix  of  its  will 

140 


Moulded  a  spawn  of  slaves.     There  was  One  Might 

And  there  was  perfect  peace  .  .  . 
But  I  awoke,  wroth  with  high  God  and  prayer. 

I  prayed  for  peace;  God,  answering  my  prayer, 

Palsied  all  flesh  with  bitter  fear  of  death. 

The  shuddering  slayers  fled  to  town  and  field 

Beset  with  carrion  visions,  foul  decay, 

And  sickening  taints  of  air  that  made  the  earth 

One  charnel  of  the  shrivelled  lines  of  war. 

And  through  all  flesh  that  omnipresent  fear 

Became  the  strangling  fingers  of  a  hand 

That  choked  aspiring  thought  and  brave  belief 

And  love  of  loveliness  and  selfless  deed 

Till  flesh  was  all,  flesh  wallowing,  styed  in  fear, 

In  festering  fear  that  stank  beyond  the  stars  — 

And  there  was  perfect  peace  .  .  . 
But  I  awoke,  wroth  with  high  God  and  prayer. 

I  prayed  for  peace ;  God,  answering  my  prayer, 
Spake  very  softly  of  forgotten  things, 
Spake  very  softly  old  remembered  words 
Sweet  as  young  starlight.     Rose  to  heaven  again 
The  mystic  challenge  of  the  Nazarene, 
That  deathless  affirmation:  —  Man  in  God 
And  God  in  man  willing  the  God  to  be  ... 
And  there  was  war  and  peace,  and  peace  and  war, 
Full  year  and  lean,  joy,  anguish,  life  and  death, 
Doing  their  work  on  the  evolving  soul, 
The  soul  of  man  in  God  and  God  in  man. 
For  death  is  nothing  in  the  sum  of  things, 
And  life  is  nothing  in  the  sum  of  things, 
And  flesh  is  nothing  in  the  sum  of  things, 
But  man  in  God  is  all  and  God  in  man, 
Will  merged  in  will,  love  immanent  in  love, 
Moving  through  visioned  vistas  to  one  goal  — 

141 


The  goal  of  man  in  God  and  God  in  man, 
And  of  all  life  in  God  and  God  in  life  — 
The  far  fruition  of  our  earthly  prayer, 
"  Thy  will  be  done !  "  .  .  .  There  is  no  peace ! 

The  Forum  William  Samuel  Johnson 

SONNETS  WRITTEN  IN  THE  FALL 
OF  1914 


Awake,  ye  nations,  slumbering  supine, 
Who  round  enring  the  European  fray! 
Heard  ye  the  trumpet   sound?     "The   Day!   the 
Day! 

The  last  that  shall  on  England's  empire  shine! 

The  Parliament  that  broke  the  Right  Divine 
Shall  see  her  realm  of  reason  swept  away, 
And  lesser  nations  shall  the  sword  obey  — 

The  sword  o'er  all  carve  the  great  world's  design !  " 

So  on  the  English  Channel  boasts  the  foe 

On  whose  imperial  brow  death's  helmet  nods. 

Look  where  his  hosts  o'er  bloody  Belgium  go, 
And  mix  a  nation's  past  with  blazing  sods ! 

A  kingdom's  waste !  a  people's  homeless  woe ! 
Man's  broken  Word,  and  violated  gods ! 


Far  fall  the  day  when  England's  realm  shall  see 

The  sunset  of  dominion!     Her  increase 

Abolishes  the  man-dividing  seas, 
And  frames  the  brotherhood  on  earth  to  be! 
She,  in  free  peoples  planting  sovereignty, 

Orbs  half  the  civil  world  in  British  peace ; 

And  though  time  dispossess  her,  and  she  cease, 
Rome-like  she  greatens  in  man's  memory. 

142 


Oh,  many  a  crown  shall  sink  in  war's  turmoil, 
And  many  a  new  republic  light  the  sky, 

Fleets  sweep  the  ocean,  nations  till  the  soil, 
Genius  be  born  and  generations  die, 

Orient  and  Occident  together  toil, 

Ere  such  a  mighty  work  man  rears  on  high! 

in 

Hearken,  the  feet  of  the  Destroyer  tread 

The  wine-press  of  the  nations;  fast  the  blood 
Pours  from  the  side  of  Europe;  in  full  flood 

On  the  septentrional  watershed 

The  rivers  of  fair  France  are  running  red! 
England,  the  mother-eyrie  of  our  brood, 
That  on  the  summit  of  dominion  stood, 

Shakes  in  the  blast:  heaven  battles  overhead! 

Lift  up  thy  head,  O  Rheims,  of  ages  heir 

That  treasured  up  in  thee  their  glorious  sum; 

Upon  whose  brow,  prophetically  fair, 

Flamed  the  great  morrow  of  the  world  to  come; 

Haunt  with  thy  beauty  this  volcanic  air 

Ere  yet  thou  close,  O  Flower  of  Christendom ! 

IV 

As  when  the  shadow  of  the  sun's  eclipse 

Sweeps  on  the  earth,  and  spreads  a  spectral  air, 
As  if  the  universe  were  dying  there, 

On  continent  and  isle  the  darkness  dips, 

Unwonted  gloom,  and  on  the  Atlantic  slips; 
So  in  the  night  the  Belgian  cities  flare 
Horizon-wide;  the  wandering  people  fare 

Along  the  roads,  and  load  the  fleeing  ships. 

And  westward  borne  that  planetary  sweep, 
Darkening  o'er  England  and  her  times  to  be, 

143 


Already  steps  upon  the  ocean-deep ! 

Watch  well,  my  country,  that  unearthly  sea, 
Lest  when  thou  thinkest  not,  and  in  thy  sleep, 

Unapt  for  war,  that  gloom  enshadow  thee ! 


I  pray  for  peace;  yet  peace  is  but  a  prayer. 

How  many  wars  have  been  in  my  brief  years ! 

All  races  and  all  faiths,  both  hemispheres, 
My  eyes  have  seen  embattled  everywhere 
The  wide  earth  through;  yet  do  I  not  despair 

Of  peace,  that  slowly  through  far  ages  nears, 

Though  not  to  me  the  golden  morn  appears ; 
My  faith  is  perfect  in  time's  issue  fair. 

For  man  doth  build  on  an  eternal  scale. 

And  his  ideals  are  framed  of  hope  deferred; 

The  millennium  came  not;  yet  Christ  did  not  fail, 
Though  ever  unaccomplished  is  His  word; 

Him  Prince  of  Peace,  though  unenthroned,  we  hail, 
Supreme  when  in  all  bosoms  He  be  heard. 


VI 

This  is  my  faith,  and  my  mind's  heritage, 
Wherein  I  toil,  though  in  a  lonely  place, 
Who  yet  world-wide  survey  the  human  race 

Unequal  from  wild  nature  disengage 

Body  and  soul,  and  life's  old  strife  assuage; 
Still  must  abide,  till  heaven  perfect  its  grace, 
And  love  grown  wisdom  sweeten  in  man's  face, 

Alike  the  Christian  and  the  heathen  rage. 

The  tutelary  genius  of  mankind 

Ripens  by  slow  degrees  the  final  State, 

144 


That  in  the  soul  shall  its  foundations  find 
And  only  in  victorious  love  grow  great; 

Patient  the  heart  must  be,  humble  the  mind, 
That  doth  the  greater  births  of  time  await ! 

VII 

Whence  not  unmoved  I  see  the  nations  form 
From  Dover  to  the  fountains  of  the  Rhine, 
A  hundred  leagues,  the  scarlet  battle-line, 

And  by  the   Vistula  great  armies   swarm, 

A  vaster  flood;  rather  my  breast  grows  warm, 
Seeing  all  peoples  of  the  earth  combine 
Under  one  standard,  with  one  countersign, 

Grown  brothers  in  the  universal  storm. 

And  never  through  the  wide  world  yet  there  rang 
A  mightier  summons!     O  Thou  who  from  the  side 

Of  Athens  and  the  loins  of  Caesar  sprang, 

Strike,  Europe,  with  half  the  coming  world  allied, 

For  those  ideals  for  which,  since  Homer  sang, 
The  hosts  of  thirty  centuries  have  died. 

New  York  Times  Magazine 

George  Edward  Woodberry 


THE  FRUIT  SHOP 

Cross-ribboned  shoes;  a  muslin  gown, 
High-waisted,  girdled  with  bright  blue ; 
A  straw  poke  bonnet  which  hid  the  frown 
She  puckered  her  little  brows  into 
As  she  picked  her  dainty  passage  through 
The  dusty  street.     "  Ah,  Mademoiselle, 
A  dirty  pathway,  we  need  rain, 
My  poor  fruits  suffer,  and  the  shell 

145 


Of  this  nut's  too  big  for  its  kernel,  lain 

Here  in  the  sun  it  has  shrunk  again. 

The  baker  down  at  the  corner  says 

We  need  a  battle  to  shake  the  clouds; 

But  I  am  a  man  of  peace,  my  ways 

Don't  look  to  the  killing  of  men  in  crowds. 

Poor  fellows  with  guns  and  bayonets  for  shrouds ! 

Pray,  Mademoiselle,  come  out  of  the  sun. 

Let  me  dust  off  that  wicker  chair.     It's  cool 

In  here,  for  the  green  leaves  I  have  run 

In  a  curtain  over  the  door,  make  a  pool 

Of  shade.     You  see  the  pears  on  that  stool  — 

The  shadow  keeps  them  plump  and  fair." 

Over  the  fruiterer's  door  the  leaves 

Held  back  the  sun,  a  greenish  flare 

Quivered  and  sparked  the  shop,  the  sheaves 

Of  sunbeams,  glanced  from  the  sign  on  the  eaves, 

Shot  from  the  golden  letters,  broke 

And  splintered  to  little  scattered  lights. 

Jeanne  Tourmont  entered  the  shop,  her  poke 

Bonnet  tilted  itself  to  rights, 

And  her  face  looked  out  like  the  moon  on  nights 

Of  flickering  clouds.     "  Monsieur  Popain,  I 

Want  gooseberries,  an  apple  or  two, 

Or  excellent  plums,  but  not  if  they're  high ; 

Haven't  you  some  which  a  strong  wind  blew? 

I've  only  a  couple  of  francs  for  you." 

Monsieur  Popain  shrugged  and  rubbed  his  hands. 

What  could  he  do,  the  times  were  sad. 

A  couple  of  francs  and  such  demands! 

And  asking  for  fruits  a  little  bad. 

Wind-blown  indeed!     He  never  had 

Anything  else  than  the  very  best  — 

He  pointed  to  baskets  of  blunted  pears 

With  the  thin  skin  tight  like  a  bursting  vest, 

All  yellow,  and  red,  and  brown,  in  smears. 

146 


Monsieur  Popain's  voice  denoted  tears. 

He  took  up  a  pear  with  tender  care, 

And  pressed  it  with  his  hardened  thumb. 

"  Smell  it,  Mademoiselle,  the  perfume  there 

Is  like  lavender,  and  sweet  thoughts  come 

Only  from  having  a  dish  at  home. 

And  those  grapes !     They  melt  in  the  mouth  like  wine, 

Just  a  click  of  the  tongue,  and  they  burst  to  honey. 

They're  only  this  morning  off  the  vine, 

And  I  paid  for  them  down  in  silver  money. 

The  Corporal's  widow  is  witness,  her  pony 

Brought  them  in  at  sunrise  to-day. 

Those  oranges  —  Gold !     They're  almost  red. 

They  seem  little  chips  just  broken  away 

From  the  sun  itself.     Or  perhaps  instead 

You'd  like  a  pomegranate,  they're  rarely  gay. 

When  you  split  them  the  seeds  are  like  crimson  spray. 

Yes,  they're  high,  they're  high,  and  those  Turkey  figs 

They  all  come  from  the  south,  and  Nelson's  ships 

Make  it  a  little  hard  for  our  rigs. 

They  must  be  forever  giving  the  slips 

To  the  cursed  English,  and  when  men  clips 

Through  powder  to  bring  them,  why  dainties  mount 

A  bit  in  price.     Those  almonds  now  — 

I'll  strip  off  that  husk  —  when  one  discounts 

A  life  or  two  in  a  nigger  row 

With  the  man  who  grew  them,  it  does  seem  how 

They  would  come  dear;  and  then  the  fight 

At  sea  perhaps,  our  boats  have  heels 

And  mostly  they  sail  along  at  night, 

But  once  in  a  way  they're  caught;  one  feels 

Ivory's  not  better  nor  finer  —  why  peels 

From  an  almond  kernel  are  worth  two  sous. 

It's  hard  to  sell  them  now,"  he  sighed, 

"  Purses  are  tight,  but  I  shall  not  lose. 

There's  plenty  of  cheaper  things  to  choose." 

147 


He  picked  some  currants  out  of  a  wide 

Earthen  bowl.     "  They  make  the  tongue 

Almost  fly  out  to  suck  them,  bride 

Currants  these  are ;  they  were  planted  long 

Ago  for  some  new  Marquise,  among 

Other  great  beauties,  before  the  Chateau 

Was  left  to  rot.     Now  the  Gardener's  wife, 

He  that  marched  off  to  his  death  at  Marengo, 

Sells  them  to  me;  she  keeps  her  life 

From  snuffing  out,  with  her  pruning  knife. 

She's  a  poor  old  thing,  but  she  learnt  the  trade 

When  her  man  was  young,  and  the  young  Marquis 

Couldn't  have  enough  garden.     The  flowers  he  made 

All  new !     And  the  fruits !     But  'twas  said  that  he 

Was  no  friend  to  the  people,  and  so  they  laid 

Some  charge  against  him,  a  cavalcade 

Of  citizens  took  him  away;  they  meant 

Well,  but  I  think  there  was  some  mistake. 

He  just  pottered  round  in  his  garden,  bent 

On  growing  things ;  we  were  so  awake 

In  those  days  for  the  New  Republic's  sake. 

He's  gone,  and  the  garden  is  all  that's  left 

Not  in  ruin,  but  the  currants  and  apricots, 

And  peaches,  furred  and  sweet,  with  a  cleft 

Full  of  morning  dew,  in  those  green  glazed  pots, 

Why,  Mademoiselle,  there  is  never  an  eft 

Or  worm  among  them,  and  as  for  theft, 

How  the  old  woman  keeps  them  I  cannot  say, 

But  they're  finer  than  any  grown  this  way." 

Jeanne  Tourmont  drew  back  the  filigree  ring 

Of  her  striped  silk  purse,  tipped  it  upside  down 

And  shook  it,  two  coins  fell  with  a  ding 

Of  striking  silver,  beneath  her  gown 

One  rolled,  the  other  lay,  a  thing 

Sparked  white  and  sharply  glistening 

In  a  drop  of  sunlight  between  two  shades. 

148 


She  jerked  the  purse,  took  its  empty  ends 

And  crumpled  them  toward  the  centre  braids. 

The  whole  collapsed  to  a  mass  of  blends 

Of  colors  and  stripes.     "  Monsieur  Popain,  friends 

We  have  always  been.     In  the  days  before 

The  Great  Revolution  my  aunt  was  kind 

When  you  needed  help.     You  need  no  more ; 

'Tis  we  now  who  must  beg  at  your  door, 

And  will  you  refuse?  "     The  little  man 

Bustled,  denied,  his  heart  was  good, 

But  times  were  hard.     He  went  to  a  pan 

And  poured  upon  the  counter  a  flood 

Of  pungent  raspberries,  tanged  like  wood. 

He  took  a  melon  with  rough  green  rind 

And  rubbed  it  well  with  his  apron  tip. 

Then  he  hunted  over  the  shop  to  find 

Some  walnuts  cracking  at  the  lip, 

And  added  to  these  a  barberry  slip 

Whose  acrid,  oval  berries  hung 

Like  fringe  and  trembled.     He  reached  a  round 

Basket,  with  handles,  from  where  it  swung 

Against  the  wall,  laid  it  on  the  ground 

And  filled  it,  then  he  searched  and  found 

The  francs  Jeanne  Tourmont  had  let  fall. 

"  You'll  return  the  basket,  Mademoiselle  ?  " 

She  smiled,  "  The  next  time  that  I  call, 

Monsieur.     You  know  that  very  well." 

'Twas  lightly  said,  but  meant  to  tell. 

Monsieur  Popain  bowed,  somewhat  abashed. 

She  took  her  basket  and  stepped  out. 

The  sunlight  was  so  bright  it  flashed 

Her  eyes  to  blindness,  and  the  rout 

Of  the  little  street  was  all  about. 

Through  glare  and  noise  she  stumbled,  dazed. 

The  heavy  basket  was  a  care. 

She  heard  a  shout  and  almost  grazed 

149 


The  panels  of  a  chaise  and  pair. 

The  postboy  yelled,  and  an  amazed 

Face  from  the  carriage  window  gazed. 

She  jumped  back  just  in  time,  her  heart 

Beating  with  fear.     Through  whirling  light 

The  chaise  departed,  but  her  smart 

Was  keen  and  bitter.     In  the  white 

Dust  of  the  street  she  saw  a  bright 

Streak  of  colors,  wet  and  gay, 

Red  like  blood.     Crushed  but  fair, 

Her  fruit  stained  the  cobbles  of  the  way. 

Monsieur  Popain  joined  her  there. 

"  Tiens,  Mademoiselle, 

c'est    le    General    Bonaparte,    partant    pour    la 

Guerre !  " 

The   Yale  Review  Amy  Lowell 


THE  PARADOX 

'Tis  evanescence  that  endures; 

The  loveliness  that  dies  the  soonest  has  the  longest 

life. 

The  rainbow  is  a  momentary  thing, 
The  afterglows  are  ashes  while  we  gaze, 
And  those  soft  flames  of  song 
That  burn  amid  the  hawthorn-scented  bushes  of  the 

May 

Expire  before  the  sense  can  fix  them. 
The  motes  of  moonlight  steal  across  the  tender  dusk, 
And  faery  flutings  wander  from  the  haunted,  hills, 
And  tremble  and  are  gone, 
All  bloom  and  fire, 

All  light  and  color,  scent  and  sound  — 
All  passion,  which  is  kin  to  these  — 

150 


Die  almost  in  the  instant  of  their  birth. 

They  die,  and  yet  they  live  forever, 

For  by  their  very  poignance  they  are  thrust 

Deeper  into  the  texture  of  that  eternal  stuff 

Which  is  the  soul, 

And  grow  to  unity  with  it;  and  there 

The  loveliness  which  dies  the  soonest  always  lives. 

New   York  Evening  Sun  Don  Marquis 


OVER  NIGHT,  A  ROSE 

That  over  night  a  rose  could  come 

I,  one  time  did  believe, 
For  when  the  fairies  live  with  one, 

They   wilfully   deceive. 
But  now  I  know  this  perfect  thing 

Under  the  frozen  sod 
In  cold  and  storm  grew  patiently 

Obedient  to  God. 
My  wonder  grows,  since  knowledge  came 

Old  fancies  to  dismiss; 
And  courage  comes.     Was  not  the  rose 

A  winter  doing  this? 
Nor  did  it  know,  the  weary  while, 

What  color  and  perfume 
With  this  completed  loveliness 

Lay  in  that  earthy  tomb. 
So  maybe  I,  who  cannot  see 

What  God  wills  not  to  show, 
May,  some  day,  bear  a  rose  for  Him 

It  took  my  life  to  grow. 

Boston  Transcript  Caroline  Giltinan 


151 


HARVEST 

There  was  a  schooner  came  ashore  this  fall; 

A  graceful  thing  flung  on  the  bar  and  slain, 
With  draggled  gear,  her  stays  about  her  trucks 

Like  blown  hair,  .  .     and  her  beauty  all  in  vain. 

She    floundered    through    the  spray    with    crumpled 
wings, 

A  gray  bird  smothered  in  a  leaping  doom. 
We  huddled  there  at  dawn  to  see  her  die, 

A  circle  of  white  faces  in  the  gloom. 

There  was  a  cold  light  reaping  in  the  east, 
A  slow  scythe  cutting  at  the  field  of  stars, 

And  wind  to  beat  a  strong  man  down.     We  stood 
Watching  five  dots  that  specked  her  tossing  spars. 

Five  human  souls.  .  .  .  We  saw  the  sea  reach  up 
And    pluck    at    them    with    great    white-fingered 

hands  — 

Three  times  the  life-boat  thrust  against  the  surf; 
The  sea  laughed  loud  .  .  .  and   broke   it  on  the 
sands. 

So  there  was  nothing  more  to  do.     The  end 

Came  as  the  sun  burst  through  its  iron  clouds. 

The  racked  ship  staggered,  reeled,  and  disappeared  — •• 
The   flung  spume   served  the   dead  men   as   their 
shrouds. 

And  then,  clear-voiced,  the  village  church-bell  sang 
Above  the  wind  and  sea.  .  .  .  We  had  forgot 

What  day  it  was.     Now  suddenly  we  turned 

Together  toward  the  house  where  death  is  not. 

No  word  was  spoken,  yet  we  all  went  in 
To  the  still  aisles  and  knelt  upon  the  floor. 

152 


A  man  was  there,  a  drunkard  and  a  thief, 
One  who  had  never  been  in  church  before. 

He  kneeled  beside  us,  twisting  his  red  hands, 
A  startled  glory  in  his  sodden  eyes.  .  .  . 

I  thought  of  five  men  silent  in  the  sea 

That  one  might  bring  his  soul  to  paradise. 

Harper's  Magazine  Dana  Burnet 


THE  NIGHT  COURT 

"  Call  Rose  Costara !  " 

Insolent,  she  comes. 
The    watchers,    practised,    keen,    turn    down    their 

thumbs. 

The  walk,  the  talk,  the  face, —  that  sea-shell  tint, — 
It  is  old  stuff;  they  read  her  like  coarse  print. 
Here  is  no  hapless  innocence  waylaid. 
This  is  a  stolid  worker  at  her  trade. 
Listening,  she  yawns;  half  smiling,  undismayed, 
Shrugging  a  little  at  the  law's  delay, 
Bored  and  impatient  to  be  on  her  way. 
It  is  her  eighth  conviction.     Out  beyond  the  rail 
A  lady  novelist  in  search  of  types  turns  pale. 
She  meant  to  write  of  them  just  as  she  found  them, 
And  with  no  tears  or  maudlin  glamour  round  them, 
In  forceful,  virile  words,  harsh,  true  words,  without 

shame, 

Calling  an  ugly  thing,  boldly,  an  ugly  name; 
Sympathy,  velvet  glove,  on  purpose,  iron  hand. 
But    eighth    conviction!     All    the    phrases    she    had 

planned 

Fail;  "sullen,"  "vengeful,"  no,  she  isn't  that. 
No,  the  pink  face  beneath  the  hectic  hat 

153 


Gives  back  her  own  aghast  and  sickened  stare 

With  a  detached  and  rather  cheerful  air, 

And  then  the  little  novelist  sees  red. 

From  her  chaste  heart  all  clemency  is  fled. 

"  Oh,  loathsome !  venomous !     Off  with  her  head ! 

Call  Rose  Costara !  "     But  before  you  stop, 

And  shelve  your  decent  rage, 

Let's  call  the  cop. 

Let's  call  the  plain-clothes  cop  who  brought  her  in. 
The  weary-eyed  night  watchman  of  the  law, 
A  shuffling  person  with  a  hanging  jaw, 
Loose-lipped  and  sallow,  rather  vague  of  chin, 
Comes  rubber-heeling  at  his  Honor's  rap. 
He  set  and  baited  and  then  sprung  the  trap  — 
The  trap  —  by  his  unsavory  report. 
Let's  ask  him  why  —  but  first 

Let's  call  the  court. 

Not  only  the  grim  figure  in  the  chair, 

Sphinx-like  above  the  waste  and  wreckage  there, 

Skeptical,  weary  of  a  retold  tale, 

But  the  whole  humming  hive,  the  false,  the  frail, — 

An  old  young  woman  with  a  weasel  face, 

A  lying  witness  waiting  in  his  place, 

Two  ferret  lawyers  nosing  out  a  case, 

Reporters  questioning  a  Mexican, 

Sobbing  her  silly  heart  out  for  her  man, 

Planning  to   feature  her,  "  lone  desperate,  pretty ,"- 

Yes,  call  the  court.     But  wait! 

Let's  call  the  city. 

Call  the  community !     Call  up,  call  down, 
Call  all  the  speeding,  mad,  unheeding  town ! 
Call  rags  and  tags  and  then  call  velvet  gown ! 
Go,  summon  them  from  tenements  and  clubs, 

154 


On  office  floors  and  over  steaming  tubs ! 
Shout  to  the  boxes  and  behind  the  scenes, 
Then  to  the  push-carts  and  the  limousines ! 
Arouse  the  lecture-room,  the  cabaret ! 
Confound  them  with  a  trumpet-blast  and  say, 
"  Are  you  so  dull,  so  deaf  and  blind  indeed, 
That  you  mistake  the  harvest  for  the  seed  ?  " 
Condemn  them  for  —  but  stay ! 

Let's  call  the  code  — 

That  facile  thing  they've  fashioned  to  their  mode: 
Smug  sophistries  that  smother  and  befool, 
That  numb  and  stupefy;  that  clumsy  thing 
That  measures  mountains  with  a  three-foot  rule, 
And  plumbs  the  ocean  with  a  pudding-string  — 
The  little,  brittle  code.     Here  is  the  root, 
Far  out  of  sight,  and  buried  safe  and  deep, 
And  Rose  Costara  is  the  bitter  fruit. 
On  every  limb  and  leaf,  death,  ruin,  creep. 

So,  lady  novelist,  go  home  again. 

Rub  biting  acid  on  your  little  pen. 

Look  back  and  out  and  up  and  in,  and  then 

Write  that  it  is  no  job  for  pruning-shears. 

Tell  them  to  dig  for  years  and  years  and  years 

The  twined  and  twisted  roots.     Blot  out  the  page; 

Invert  the  blundering  order  of  the  age; 

Reverse  the  scheme:  the  last  shall  be  the  first. 

Summon  the  system,  starting  with  the  worst  — 

The  lying,  dying  code!     On,  down  the  line, 

The  city,  and  the  court,  the  cop.     Assign 

The  guilt,  the  blame,  the  shame!     Sting,  lash,  and 

spur ! 
Call  each  and  all !     Call  us !     And  then  call  her ! 

Century  Magazine  Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell 

155 


PAX  BEATA 

I've  closed  my  door  and  I  am  all  alone, 

Here  in  my  room,  all  fragrant  with  my  better  self. 

Here  are  my  pictures  that  have  waited  long  for  me: 

Erasmus  with  his  studious  calm; 

My  laughing  children  and  my  laughing  girl, 

My  quaint  stiff  angels  and  my  meek  St.  John  — 

They  greet  me  as  I  come  to  them  for  rest. 

Up  on  my  shelves  my  other  friends 

Are  waiting,  too,  for  me:  my  friends 

That  take  me  far  beyond  my  tiny  room 

And  make  its  sunny  space 

A  gleaming  entrance  into  other  lands. 

There  is  my  little  bed,  where  all  the  night 

My  body  lies  asleep 

And  leaves  my  soul  quite  free 

To  wander  with  the  winds. 

There  is  my  window  where  I  say  my  prayers 

And  look  straight  out  upon  the  solid  hills 

And  listen  for  the  rustle  of  the  angels'  wings. 

My  room,  all  sweet  with  flowers  I  love 

That  grow  for  me  because  I  love  them; 

All  fragrant,  too,  with  ghosts  of  flowers 

That  bloomed  and  drooped  with  me; 

My  room,  so  still  and  quiet,  yet  astir 

With  all  the  souls  of  those  that  love  and  trust  me. 

Outside,  the  strife  and  struggle  and  the  strain; 

In  here  there's  peace,  and  quietude,  and  strength. 

I've  closed  my  door  and  I  am  all  alone. 
Harper's  Magazine  Mary  Rachel  Norris 


156 


THE  SERVICE 

I  was  the  third  man  running  in  a  race, 

And  memory  still  must  run  it  o'er  and  o'er: 

The  pounding  heart  that  beat  against  my  frame; 
The  wind  that  dried  the  sweat  upon  my  face 

And  turned  my  throat  to  paper  creased  and  sore; 
The  jabbing  pain  that  sharply  went  and  came. 

My  eyes  saw  nothing  save  a  strip  of  road 
That  flaunted  there  behind  the  second  man; 
It  swam  and  blurred,  yet  still  it  lay  before. 
My  legs  seemed  none  of  mine,  but  rhythmic  strode 
Unconscious  of  my  will  that  urged,  "  You  can !  " 
And  cried  at  them  to  make  one  effort  more. 

Then  suddenly  there  broke  a  wave  of  sound, — 
Crowds  shouting  when  the  first  man  struck  the  tape; 

And  then  the  second  roused  that  friendly  din; 
While  I  —  I  stumbled  forward  and  the  ground 
All  wavered  'neath  my  feet,  while  men  agape, 
But  silent,  saw  me  as  I  staggered  in. 

As  sick  in  heart  and  flesh  I  bent  my  head, 

Two  seized  me  and  embraced  me,  and  one  cried, 

"  Your  thudding  footsteps  held  me  to  the  grind." 
And  then  the  winner,  smiling  wanly,  said, 

"  No  dream  of  records  kept  me  to  my  stride  — 
I  dreaded  you  two  thundering  behind !  " 

Harper's  Magazine  Surges  Johnson 


TESTAMENT 

I  said,  "  I  will  take  my  life 
And  throw  it  away; 

157 


I  who  was  fire  and  song 
Will  turn  to  clay." 

"  I  will  lie  no  more  in  the  night 

With  shaken  breath, 
I  will  toss  my  heart  in  the  air 

To  be  caught  by  Death." 

But  out  of  the  night  I  heard 
Like  the  inland  sound  of  the  sea, 

The  hushed  and  terrible  sob 
Of  all  humanity. 

Then  I  said,  "  Oh,  who  am  I 
To  scorn  God  to  His  face? 

I  will  bow  my  head  and  stay 
And  suffer  with  my  race." 

The  Smart  Set  Sara  Teasdale 


A  STATUE  IN  A  GARDEN 

I  was  a  goddess  ere  the  marble  found  me. 

Wind,  wind,  delay  not! 
Waft  my  spirit  where  the  laurel  crowned  me! 

Will  the  wind  stay  not? 

Then  tarry,  tarry,  listen,  little  swallow! 

An  old  glory  feeds  me  — 
I  lay  upon  the  bosom  of  Apollo! 

Not  a  bird  heeds  me. 

For  here  the  days  are  alien.     O,  to  waken 

Mine,  mine,  with  calling! 
But  on  my  shoulders  bare,  like  hopes  forsaken, 

The  dead  leaves  are  falling. 

158 


The  sky  is  gray  and  full  of  unshed  weeping 

As  dim  down  the  garden 
I  wait  and  watch  the  early  autumn  sweeping. 

The  stalks  fade  and  harden. 

The  souls  of  all  the  flowers  afar  have  rallied. 

The  trees,  gaunt,  appalling, 
Attest  the  gloom,  and  on  my  shoulders  pallid 

The  dead  leaves  are  falling. 

Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse  Agnes  Lee 

FATE 

The  mist-strange  mountains  at  the  horizon  line, 
And  the  white  combers  breaking  on  the  beach; 
The  sense  of  calm  and  infinite  great  reach 
Of  sea  and  sky;  the  lure  of  a  divine 
Something  beyond,  whereof  God  gives  a  sign 
To  seeking  souls,  and  seems  to  pledge  to  each 
A  benison  not  caught  in  any  speech 
Such  as  is  limned  by  words  of  thine  and  mine. 

A  peace  of  heaven  encompasses  and  calls; 
The  southward-speeding  sun  with  cloudless  smile 
Comforts  a  heart  but  now  disconsolate. 
Sudden,  o'erhead,  a  great  bird's  shadow  falls : 
With  shivering  swiftness  drop  dark  fears  of  guile, 
The  omened  pinions  of  the  wing  of  Fate ! 

The  Bellman  Richard  Burton 

THE  ANSWER 

When  I  go  back  to  earth 
And  all  my  joyous  body 
Puts  off"  the  red  and  white 

159 


That  once  had  been  so  proud, 
If  men  should  pass  above 
With  false  and  feeble  pity, 
My  dust  will  find  a  voice 
To  answer  them  aloud: 

"  Be  still,  I  am  content, 

Take  back  your  poor  compassion, 

Joy  was  a  flame  in  me 

Too  steady  to  destroy; 

Lithe  as  a  bending  reed 

Loving  the  storm  that  sways  her  — 

I  found  more  joy  in  sorrow 

Than  you  could  find  in  joy." 

Poetry :  A  Magazine  of  Verse          Sara  Teasdale 


THE  WHITE  WITCH 

O,  brothers  mine,  take  care  !     Take  care ! 
The  great  white  witch  rides  out  to-night, 
Trust  not  your  prowess  nor  your  strength; 
Your  only  safety  lies  in  flight; 
For  in  her  glance  there  is  a  snare, 
And  in  her  smile  there  is  a  blight. 

The  great  white  witch  you  have  not  seen? 
Then,  younger  brothers  mine,  forsooth, 
Like  nursery  children  you  have  looked 
For  ancient  hag  and  snaggled  tooth; 
But  no,  not  so;  the  witch  appears 
In  all  the  glowing  charms  of  youth. 

Her  lips  are  like  carnations  red, 
Her  face  like  new-born  lilies  fair, 
Her  eyes  like  ocean  waters  blue, 

160 


She  moves  with  subtle  grace  and  air, 
And  all  about  her  head  there  floats 
The  golden  glory  of  her  hair. 

But  though  she  always  thus  appears 
In  form  of  youth  and  mood  of  mirth, 
Unnumbered  centuries  are  hers, 
The  infant  planets  saw  her  birth; 
The  child  of  throbbing  Life  is  she, 
Twin  sister  to  the  greedy  earth. 

And  back  behind  those  smiling  lips, 
And  down  within  those  laughing  eyes, 
And  underneath  the  soft  caress 
Of  hand  and  voice  and  purring  sighs 
The  shadow  of  the  panther  lurks, 
The  spirit  of  the  vampire  lies. 

For  I  have  seen  the  great  white  witch, 
And  she  has  led  me  to  her  lair, 
And  I  have  kissed  her  red,  red  lips 
And  cruel  face  so  white  and  fair; 
Around  me  she  has  twined  her  arms, 
And  bound  me  with  her  yellow  hair. 

I  felt  those  red  lips  burn  and  sear 
My  body  like  a  living  coal; 
Obeyed  the  power  of  those  eyes 
As  the  needle  trembles  to  the  pole; 
And  did  not  care  although  I  felt 
The  strength  go  ebbing  from  my  soul. 

Oh !  she  has  seen  your  strong  young  limbs, 
And  heard  your  laughter  loud  and  gay, 
And  in  your  voices  she  has  caught 
The  echo  of  a  far  off  day, 

161 


When  man  was  closer  to  the  earth ; 
And  she  has  marked  you  for  her  prey. 

She  feels  the  old  Antsean  strength 
In  you,  the  great  dynamic  beat 
Of  primal  passions,  and  she  sees 
In  you  the  last  besieged  retreat 
Of  love  relentless,  lusty,  fierce, 
Love  pain-ecstatic,  cruel-sweet. 

O,  brothers  mine,  take  care!     Take  care! 
The  great  white  witch  rides  out  to-night! 
O,  younger  brothers  mine,  beware! 
Look  not  upon  her  beauty  bright; 
For  in  her  glance  there  is  a  snare, 
And  in  her  smile  there  is  a  blight. 

The  Crisis  James  Weldon  Johnson 


(Re-entered  at  the  Request  of  the  Gentleman  from  Texas) 

Back  in  the  Vanished  Country 

There's  a  cabin  in  the  lane, 

Across  the  yellow  sunshine 

And  the  silver  of  the  rain; 

A  cabin,  summer-shaded, 

Where  the  maples  whispered  low 

Dream  stories  of  the  southwind 

That  a  fellow  used  to  know; 

And  it's  queer  that,  turning  gray, 

Still  a  fellow  looks  away 

To  a  dream  he  knows  has  vanished 

Down  the  Path  of  Yesterday. 


162 


Back  in  the  Vanished  Country 
There's  an  old-time  swinging  gate 
Through  the  early  dusk  of  summer 
Where  a  girl  had  come  to  wait; 
And  her  hair  was  like  the  sundrift 
From  the  heart  of  summer  skies 
While  the  blue  of  God's  wide  heaven 
Crowned  the  splendor  of  her  eyes; 
And  it's  queer  that,  turning  gray, 
Still  a  fellow  looks  away 
To  a  dream  he  knows  has  vanished 
Down  the  Path  of  Yesterday. 

Back  in  the  Vanished  Country 

There's  a  dream  that  used  to  be, 

Of  Fame  within  the  City 

And  a  name  beyond  the  sea; 

A  dream  of  laurel  wreathings 

That  came  singing  through  the  night 

The  story  of  the  glory 

Of  the  victor  in  the  fight; 

And  it's  queer  that,  worn  and  gray, 

Still  a  fellow  looks  away 

To  a  dream  he  knows  has  vanished 

Down  the  Path  of  Yesterday. 

New   York  Tribune  Grantland  Rice 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  HIRED  MAN 

Mary  sat  musing  on  the  lamp-flame  at  the  table 
Waiting  for  Warren.     When  she  heard  his  step, 
She  ran  on  tip-toe  down  the  darkened  passage 
To  meet  him  in  the  doorway  with  the  news 

163 


And  put  him  on  his  guard.     "  Silas  is  back." 
She  pushed  him  outward  with  her  through  the  door 
And  shut  it  after  her.     "  Be  kind/'  she  said. 
She  took  the  market  things  from  Warren's  arms 
And  set  them  on  the  porch,  then  drew  him  down 
To  sit  beside  her  on  the  wooden  steps. 

"  When  was  I  ever  anything  but  kind  to  him  ? 
But  I'll  not  have  the  fellow  back,"  he  said. 
"  I  told  him  so  last  haying,  didn't  I  ? 
'  If  he  left  then/  I  said,  '  that  ended  it.' 
What  good  is  he?     Who  else  will  harbor  him 
At  his  age  for  the  little  he  can  do? 
What  help  he  is  there's  no  depending  on. 
Off  he  goes  always  when  I  need  him  most. 
'  He  thinks  he  ought  to  earn  a  little  pay, 
Enough  at  least  to  buy  tobacco  with, 
So  he  won't  have  to  beg  and  be  beholden.' 
'  All  right/  I  say,  '  I  can't  afford  to  pay 
Any  fixed  wages,  though  I  wish  I  could.' 
'  Someone  else  can.'     '  Then  someone  else  will  have 
to.' 

I  shouldn't  mind  his  bettering  himself 

If  that  was  what  it  was.     You  can  be  certain, 

When  he  begins  like  that,  there's  someone  at  him 

Trying  to  coax  him  off  with  pocket-money, — 

In  haying  time,  when  any  help  is  scarce. 

In  winter  he  comes  back  to  us.     I'm  done." 

"  Sh !  not  so  loud :  he'll  hear  you,"  Mary  said. 
"  I  want  him  to :  he'll  have  to  soon  or  late." 

"  He's  worn  out.     He's  asleep  beside  the  stove. 
When  I  came  up  from  Rowe's  I  found  him  here, 
Huddled  against  the  barn-door  fast  asleep, 
A  miserable  sight,  and  frightening,  too  — 

164 


You  needn't  smile  —  I  didn't  recognize  him  — 
I  wasn't  looking  for  him  —  and  he's  changed. 
Wait  till  you  see." 

"  Where  did  you  say  he'd  been  ?  " 

"  He  didn't  say.     I  dragged  him  to  the  house, 
And  gave  him  tea  and  tried  to  make  him  smoke. 
I  tried  to  make  him  talk  about  his  travels. 
Nothing  would  do:  he  just  kept  nodding  off." 

"What  did  you  say?     Did  he  say  anything?" 

"  But  little." 

"  Anything?     Mary,  confess 
He  said  he'd  come  to  ditch  the  meadow  for  me." 

"  Warren ! " 

"  But  did  he?     I  just  want  to  know." 

"  Of  course  he  did.     What  would  you  have  him  say? 

Surely  you  wouldn't  grudge  the  poor  old  man 

Some  humble  way  to  save  his  self-respect. 

He  added,  if  you  really  care  to  know, 

He  meant  to  clear  the  upper  pasture,  too. 

That  sounds  like  something  you  have  heard  before? 

Warren,  I  wish  you  could  have  heard  the  way 

He  jumbled  everything.     I  stopped  to  look 

Two  or  three  times  —  he  made  me  feel  so  queer  — 

To  see  if  he  was  talking  in  his  sleep. 

He  ran  on  Harold  Wilson  —  you  remember  — 

The  boy  you  had  in  haying  four  years  since. 

He's  finished  school,  and  teaching  in  his  college. 

Silas  declares  you'll  have  to  get  him  back. 

He  says  they  two  will  make  a  team  for  work : 


165 


Between  them  they  will  lay  this  farm  as  smooth! 
The  way  he  mixed  that  in  with  other  things. 
He  thinks  young  Wilson  a  likely  lad,  though  daft 
On  education  —  you.  know  how  they  fought 
All  through  July  under  the  blazing  sun, 
Silas  up  on  the  cart  to  build  the  load, 
Harold  along  beside  to  pitch  it  on." 

"  Yes,  I  took  care  to  keep  well  out  of  earshot." 

"  Well,  those  days  trouble  Silas  like  a  dream. 

You  wouldn't  think  they  would.     How  some  things 

linger ! 

Harold's  young  college  boy's  assurance  piqued  him. 
After  so  many  years  he  still  keeps  finding 
Good  arguments  he  sees  he  might  have  used. 
I  sympathize.     I  know  just  how  it  feels 
To  think  of  the  right  thing  to  say  too  late. 
Harold's  associated  in  his  mind  with  Latin. 
He  asked  me  what  I  thought  of  Harold's  saying 
He  studied  Latin  like  the  violin 
Because  he  liked  it  —  that  an  argument ! 
He  said  he  couldn't  make  the  boy  believe 
He  could  find  water  with  a  hazel  prong  — 
Which  showed  how  much  good  school  had  ever  done 

him. 

He  wanted  to  go  over  that.     But  most  of  all 
He  thinks  if  he  could  have  another  chance 
To  teach  him  how  to  build  a  load  of  hay  — " 

"  I  know,  that's  Silas'  one  accomplishment. 

He  bundles  every  forkful  in  its  place, 

And  tags  and  numbers  it  for  future  reference, 

So  he  can  find  and  easily  dislodge  it 

In  the  unloading.     Silas  does  that  well. 

He  takes  it  out  in  bunches  like  big  birds'  nests. 

166 


You  never  see  him  standing  on  the  hay 

He's  trying  to  lift,  straining  to  lift  himself." 

"  He  thinks  if  he  could  teach  him  that,  he'd  be 
Some  good  perhaps  to  someone  in  the  world. 
He  hates  to  see  a  boy  the  fool  of  books. 
Poor  Silas,  so  concerned  for  other  folks, 
And  nothing  to  look  backward  to  with  pride, 
And  nothing  to  look  forward  to  with  hope, 
So  now  and  never  any  different." 

Part  of  a  moon  was  falling  down  the  west, 
Dragging  the  whole  sky  with  it  to  the  hills. 
Its  light  poured  softly  in  her  lap.     She  saw 
And  spread  her  apron  to  it.     She  put  out  her  hand 
Among  the  harp-like  morning-glory  strings, 
Taut  with  the  dew  from  garden  bed  to  caves, 
As  if  she  played  unheard  the  tenderness 
That  wrought  on  him  beside  her  in  the  night. 
"  Warren,"  she  said,  "  he  has  come  home  to  die: 
You  needn't  be  afraid  he'll  leave  you  this  time." 

"  Home,"  he  mocked  gently. 

"  Yes,  what  else  but  home  ? 
It  all  depends  on  what  you  mean  by  home. 
Of  course  he's  nothing  to  us,  any  more 
Than  was  the  hound  that  came  a  stranger  to  us 
Out  of  the  woods,  worn  out  upon  the  trail." 

"  Home  is  the  place  where,  when  you  have  to  go  there, 
They  have  to  take  you  in." 

"  I  should  have  called  it 
Something  you  somehow  haven't  to  deserve." 

Warren  leaned  out  and  took  a  step  or  two, 
Picked  up  a  little  stick,  and  brought  it  back 

167 


And  broke  it  in  his  hand  and  tossed  it  by. 
"  Silas  has  better  claim  on  us  you  think 
Than  on  his  brother?     Thirteen  little  miles 
As  the  road  winds  would  bring  him  to  his  door. 
Silas  has  walked  that  far  no  doubt  to-day. 
Why  didn't  he  go  there?     His  brother's  rich, 
A  somebody  —  director  in  the  bank." 

"  He  never  told  us  that." 

"  We  know  it  though." 

"  I  think  his  brother  ought  to  help,  of  course. 

I'll  see  to  that  if  there  is  need.     He  ought  of  right 

To  take  him  in,  and  might  be  willing  to  — 

He  may  be  better  than  appearances. 

But  have  some  pity  on  Silas.     Do  you  think 

If  he'd  had  any  pride  in  claiming  kin 

Or  anything  he  looked  for  from  his  brother, 

He'd  keep  so  still  about  him  all  this  time  ?  " 

"  I  wonder  what's  between  them  ?  " 

"  I  can  tell  you. 

Silas  is  what  he  is  —  we  wouldn't  mind  him  — 
But  just  the  kind  that  kinsfolk  can't  abide. 
He  never  did  a  thing  so  very  bad. 
He  don't  know  why  he  isn't  quite  as  good 
As  anyone.     He  won't  be  made  ashamed 
To  please  his  brother,  worthless  though  he  is." 

"  I  can't  think  Si  ever  hurt  anyone." 

"  No,  but  he  hurt  my  heart  the  way  he  lay 
And  rolled  his  old  head  on  that  sharp-edged  chair- 
back. 
He  wouldn't  let  me  put  him  on  the  lounge. 


168 


You  must  go  in  and  see  what  you  can  do. 

I  made  the  bed  up  for  him  there  to-night. 

You'll  be  surprised  at  him  —  how  much  he's  broken. 

His  working  days  are  done;  I'm  sure  of  it." 

"  I'd  not  be  in  a  hurry  to  say  that." 

"  I  haven't  been.     Go,  look,  see  for  yourself. 
But,  Warren,  please  remember  how  it  is: 
He's  come  to  help  you  ditch  the  meadow. 
He  has  a  plan.     You  mustn't  laugh  at  him. 
He  may  not  speak  of  it,  and  then  he  may. 
I'll  sit  and  see  if  that  small  sailing  cloud 
Will  hit  or  miss  the  moon." 

It  hit  the  moon. 

Then  there  was  three  there,  making  a  dim  row, 
The  moon,  the  little  silver  cloud,  and  she. 

Warren   returned  —  too  soon,  it  seemed  to  her, 
Slipped  to  her  side,  caught  up  her  hand  and  waited. 

"  Warren,"  she  questioned. 

"  Dead,"  was  all  he  answered. 
The  New  Republic  Robert  Frost 


SWIMMERS 

I  took  the  crazy  short-cut  to  the  bay  — 

Over  a  fence  or  two  and  through  a  hedge, 

Jumping  a  private  road, —  along  the  edge 

Of  backyards  full  of  drying  wash  it  lay. 

I  ran,  electric  with  elation, 

Sweating,  impetuous,  and  wild 

For  a  swift  plunge  in  the  sea  that  smiled, 

169 


Mocking  and  languid,  half  a  mile  away. 

This  was  the  final  thrill,  the  last  sensation 

That  capped  four  hours  of  violence  and  laughter  — 

To  have,  with  casual  friends  and  casual  jokes, 

Hard  sport,  a  cold  swim  and  fresh  linen  after.  .  .  . 

And  now,  the  last  set  being  played  and  over, 

I  hurried  past  the  lazy  lakes  of  clover; 

I  swung  my  racket  at  astonished  oaks, 

My  arm  still  tingling  from  aggressive  strokes. 

Tennis  was  over  for  the  day  — 

I  took  the  leaping  short-cut  to  the  bay. 

Then,  the  swift  plunge  into  the  cool,  green  dark  — 

The  windy  waters  rushing  past  me,  through  me, 

Filled  with  the  sense  of  some  heroic  lark, 

Exulting  in  a  vigor,  clean  and  roomy. 

Swiftly  I  rose  to  meet  the  feline  sea 

That  sprang  upon  me  with  a  hundred  claws, 

And  grappled,  pulled  me  down,  and  played  with  me. 

Then,  tense  and  breathless  in  the  tightening  pause, 

When  one  wave  grows  into  a  toppling  acre, 

I  dived  headlong  into  the  foremost  breaker. 

Pitting  against  a  cold  and  turbulent  strife 
The  feverish  intensity  of  life.  .  .  . 
Out  of  the  foam  I  lurched  and  rode  the  wave, 
Swimming,  hand  over  hand,  against  the  wind; 
I  felt  the  sea's  vain  pounding,  and  I  grinned 
Knowing  I  was  its  master,  not  its  slave. 
Oh,  the  proud  total  of  those  lusty  hours  — 
The  give  and  take  of  rough  and  vigorous  tussles 
With  happy  sinews  and  rejoicing  muscles; 
The  knowledge  of  my  own  beneficent  powers, — 
Feeling  the  force  in  one  small  body  bent 
To  curb  and  tame  this  towering  element. 


170 


Back  on  the  curving  beach  I  stood  again, 
Facing  the  bath-house,  when  a  group  of  men, 
Stumbling  beneath  some  sort  of  weight,  went  by. 
I  could  not  see  the  hidden  thing  they  carried ; 
I  only  heard:     "  He  never  gave  a  cry  " — 
"Who's  going  to  tell  her" — "Yes,  and  they  just 

married  " — 
"  Such  a   good   swimmer,   too,"  .  .  .  and   then  they 

passed, 
Leaving  the  silence  throbbing  and  aghast. 

A  moment  there  my  buoyant  heart  hung  slack, 

And  then  the  glad,  barbaric  blood  came  back 

Singing  a  livelier  tune;  and  in  my  pulse 

I  felt  the  goad  that  strengthens  and  exults.  .  .  . 

Why  I  was  there  and  whither  I  must  go 

I  did  not  care  —  enough  for  me  to  know 

The  same  unresting  struggle  and  the  glowing 

Life,  an  adventure  perilous  and  gay  — 

And  Death,  a  long  and  vivid  holiday. 

The  Yale  Review  Louis  Untermeyer 


IF  ONE  SHOULD  COME 

If  One  should  come  from  out  the  Calm  to-night, 
Leaving  the  Grievous   Question  yet  unsolved, 
I  think  I  should  not  marvel  how  involved 
Can  every  beauty  be  in  Beauty's  sight. 

I  think  I  should  not  wish  for  nor  delight 
In  the  old  close  communion,  soul  with  soul; 
Nor  care  to  let  dead  years  exact  their  toll, 
Nor  old  emotions  move  me  with  their  might; 

But  hasten  to  receive  her  as  a  queen, 

Not  wholly  blameless,  who  hath  gained  what  Age 
Must  humbly  ask  for;  who,  with  Youth  for  gage, 

171 


Won  ingress  to  the  Hidden  and  Unseen; 

Who,  with  her  puissant  beauty,  purchased  all ;  — 
As  one  who  tempted  Death  and  caused  his  fall! 

The  Midland  Mahlon  Leonard  Fisher 

A  Magazine  of  the  Middle  West 


VOYAGE  A  L'INFINI 

The  swan  existing 

Is  like  a  song  with  an  accompaniment 

Imaginary. 

Across  the  glassy  lake, 

Across  the  lake  to  the  shadow  of  the  willows, 

It  is  accompanied  by  an  image, 

—  As  by  Debussy's 

"  Reflets  dans  Veau." 

The  swan  that  is 

Reflects 

Upon  the  solitary  water —  breast  to  breast 

With  the  duplicity: 

"  The  other  one!  " 

And  breast  to  breast  it  is  confused. 

O  visionary  wedding !     O  stateliness  of  the  procession ! 

It  is  accompanied  by  the  image  of  itself 

Alone. 

At  night 

The  lake  is  a  wide  silence, 

Without  imagination. 

Others.  A  Magazine  of  the  New  Verse 

Walter   Conrad   Arensberg 

172 


THE  LAST  PIPER 

Dark  winds  of  the  mountain, 
White  winds  of  the  sea 
Are  skirling  the  pibroch 
Of  Seumas  an  High. 

The  crying  of  gannets, 
The  shrieking  of  terns 
Are  keening  his  dying 
High  over  the  burns. 

Gray  silence  of  waters 
And  wasting  of  lands 
And  the  wailing  of  music 
Down  to  the  sands. 


The  wailing  of  music 
And  trailing  of  wind, 
The  waters  before  him, 
The  mountains  behind. 

Alone  at  the  gathering, 
Silent  he  stands, 
And  the  wail  of  his  piping 
Cries  over  the  lands 

To  the  moan  of  the  waters, 
The  drone  of  the  foam 
Where  his  soul,  a  white  gannet, 
Wings  silently  home. 

Boston  Transcript  Edward  J.  O'Brien 


173 


TIME 

What  thought  can  measure  Time  ?  — 

Tell  its  beginning,  name 

The  void  from  which  it  first,  faint-pulsing  came  ?  — 

Follow  its  onward  going  — 

A  restless  river  without  tumult  flowing  — 
Or  with  sure  footing  climb 
Unto  its  unlit  altitudes  sublime? 

What  thought  can  trace  the  wonders  it  hath  seen  — 
Time,  the  creator  of  all  that  hath  been, 

Giver  of  bounty  where  was  dearth, 

Bringer  of  miracles  to  birth : 
Time  through  whose  office  is  the  seedling  sown, 
The  fruit  upgathered,  the  ripe  harvest  mown, 

And  beauty  made  to  glorify  the  earth? 

Before  the  land  took  shape  and  rose 
Black  and  chaotic  from  the  old,  old  sea, 

Before  the  stars  their  courses  chose, 

Before  the  moon's  most  ancient  memory, 

Time  to  Earth's  vision,  veiled  in  night,  appears 

Back  of  the  viewless  cycles  of  the  years. 

The  Hours,  his  little  children,  run 

Lightly  upon  his  errands  ever; 
By  sure  and  swift  relays  is  done 

His  will,  disputed  never; 
The  while  these  transient  Hours  infirm 
Measure  of  mortal  things  the  destined  term. 

Ah,  me,  the  days !  the  heavy-weighted  years, 

Each  with  its  Spring  and  Winter,  dusk  and  dawn ! 

The  centuries,  with  all  their  joys,  their  tears, 
That  came,  and  now  —  so  utterly  are  gone ! 

174- 


Gone  whither?  whither  vanished  so? 
Does  broad  Orion,  or  does  Hesper  know? 

There  comes  no  answer.     Are  we  dupes,  indeed  — 
Offspring  of  Time,  by  Time  relentless  slain, 
Our  purest  aspirations  dreamed  in  vain? 
Ah,  no :  man's  soul  indignant  doth  disdain 

Ignoble  vassalage  to  such  a  creed, 

Well  knowing  it  is  free  — 

Aye,  free !  —  for  present,  past,  and  future  blend, 
The  segments  of  a  circle  without  end, 

Losing  themselves   in  one,  unbourned   Eternity! 

North  American  Review      Florence  Earle  Coates 


SILENCE 

I  have  known  the  silence  of  the  stars  and  of  the  sea, 
And  the  silence  of  the  city  when  it  pauses, 
And  the  silence  of  a  man  and  a  maid, 
And  the  silence  for  which  music  alone  finds  the  word, 
And  the  silence  of  the  woods  before  the  winds  of 

spring,  begin, 

And  the  silence  of  the  sick 
When  their  eyes  roam  about  the  room. 
And  I  ask:     For  the  depths 
Of  what  use  is  language? 
A  beast  of  the  fields  moans  a  few  times 
When  death  takes  its  young. 

And  we  are  voiceless  in  the  presence  of  realities  — 
We  cannot  speak. 

A  curious   boy   asks   an   old   soldier 
Sitting  in  front  of  the  grocery  store, 

175 


"  How  did  you  lose  your  leg?  " 

And  the  old  soldier  is  struck  with  silence, 

Or  his  mind  flies  away 

Because  he  cannot  concentrate  it  on  Gettysburg. 

It  comes  back  jocosely 

And  he  says,  "  A  bear  bit  it  off." 

And  the  boy  wonders,  while  the  old  soldier 

Dumbly,  feebly  lives  over 

The  flashes  of  guns,  the  thunder  of  cannon, 

The  shrieks  of  the  slain, 

And  himself  lying  on  the  ground, 

And  the  hospital  surgeons,  the  knives, 

And  the  long  days  in  bed. 

But  if  he  could  describe  it  all 

He  would  be  an  artist. 

But  if  he  were  an  artist  there  would  be  deeper  wounds 

Which  he  could  not  describe. 


There  is  the  silence  of  a  great  hatred, 
And  the  silence  of  a  great  love, 
And  the  silence  of  a  deep  peace  of  mind, 
And  the  silence  of  an  embittered  friendship, 
There  is  the  silence  of  a  spiritual  crisis, 
Through  which  your  soul,  exquisitely  tortured, 
Comes  with  visions  not  to  be  uttered 
Into  a  realm  of  higher  life. 
And  the   silence   of  the  gods   who  understand   each 

other  without  speech, 
There  is  the  silence  of  defeat. 
There  is  the  silence  of  those  unjustly  punished; 
And  the  silence  of  the  dying  whose  hand 
Suddenly  grips  yours. 

There  is  the  silence  between  father  and  son, 
When  the  father  cannot  explain  his  life, 
Even  though  he  be  misunderstood  for  it. 

176 


There  is  the  silence  that  comes  between  husband 

and  wife. 

There  is  the  silence  of  those  who  have  failed ; 
And  the  vast  silence  that  covers 
Broken  nations  and  vanquished  leaders. 
There  is  the  silence  of  Lincoln, 
Thinking  of  the  poverty  of  his  youth. 
And  the  silence  of  Napoleon 
After  Waterloo. 

And  the  silence  of  Jeanne  D'Arc 
Saying  amid  the  flames,  "  Blessed  Jesus  " — 
Revealing  in  two  words  all  sorrow,  all  hope. 
And  there  is  the  silence  of  age, 
Too  full  of  wisdom  for  the  tongue  to  utter  it 
In  words  intelligible  to  those  who  have  not  lived 
The  great  range  of  life. 

And  there  is  the  silence  of  the  dead. 
If  we  who  are  in  life  cannot  speak 
Of  profound  experiences, 
Why  do  you  marvel  that  the  dead 
Do  not  tell  you  of  death? 
Their  silence  shall  be  interpreted 
As  we  approach  them. 

Poetry:  A   Magazine  of   Verse 

Edgar  Lee  Masters 

MADISON  CAWEIN 

The  wind  makes  moan,  the  water  runneth  chill; 

I  hear  the  nymphs  go  crying  through  the  brake ; 
And  roaming  mournfully  from  hill  to  hill 

The  maenads  all  are  silent  for  his  sake! 

He  loved  thy  pipe,  O  wreathed  and  piping  Pan! 
So  play'st  thou  sadly,  lone  within  thine  hollow;, 

177 


He  was  thy  blood,  if  ever  mortal  man, 

Therefore  thou  weepest  —  even  thou,  Apollo ! 

But  O,  the  grieving  of  the  Little  Things, 

Above  the  pipe  and  lyre,  throughout  the  woods! 

The  beating  of  a  thousand  airy  wings, 
The  cry  of  all  the  fragile  multitudes! 

The  moth  flits  desolate,  the  tree-toad  calls, 
Telling  the  sorrow  of  the  elf  and  fay; 

The  cricket,  little  harper  of  the  walls, 

Puts  up  his  harp  —  hath  quite  forgot  to  play! 

And  risen  on  these  winter  paths  anew, 

The  wilding  blossoms  make  a  tender  sound; 

The  purple  weed,  the  morning-glory  blue, 
And  all  the  timid  darlings  of  the  ground! 

Here,  here  the  pain  is  sharpest!     For  he  walked 
As  one  of  these  —  and  they  knew  naught  of  fear, 

But  told  him  daily  happenings  and  talked 
Their  lovely  secrets  in  his  listening  ear! 

Yet  we  do  bid  them  grieve,  and  tell  their  grief; 

Else  were  they  thankless,  else  were  all  untrue; 
O  wind  and  stream,  O  bee  and  bird  and  leaf, 

Mourn  for  your  poet,  with  a  long  adieu! 

Louisville  Evening  Post 

Margaret  Steele  Anderson 


THE  BIRD  AND  THE  TREE 

Blackbird,  blackbird  in  the  cage, 
There's  something  wrong  to-night. 
Far  off  the  sheriff's  footfall  dies, 
The  minutes  crawl  like  last  year's  flies 

178 


Between  the  bars,  and  like  an  age 
The  hours  are  long  to-night. 

The  sky  is  like  a  heavy  lid 

Out  here  beyond  the  door  to-night. 

What's  that?     A  mutter  down  the  street. 

What's  that?     The  sound  of  yells  and  feet. 

For  what  you  didn't  do  or  did 

You'll  pay  the  score  to-night. 

No  use  to  reek  with  reddened  sweat, 

No  use  to  whimper  and  to  sweat. 

They've  got  the  rope;  they've  got  the  guns, 

They've  got  the  courage  and  the  guns; 

An  that's  the  reason  why  to-night 

No  use  to  ask  them  any  more. 

They'll  fire  the  answer  through  the  door  — 

You're  out  to  die  to-night. 

There  where  the  lonely  cross-road  lies, 
There  is  no  place  to  make  replies; 
But  silence,  inch  by  inch,  is  there, 
And  the  right  limb  for  a  lynch  is  there ; 
And  a  lean  daw  waits  for  both  your  eyes, 
Blackbird. 

Perhaps  you'll  meet  again  some  place. 
Look  for  the  mask  upon  the  face; 
That's  the  way  you'll  know  them  there  — 
A  white  mask  to  hide  the  face. 
And  you  can  halt  and  show  them  there 
The  things  that  they  are  deaf  to  now, 
And  they  can  tell  you  what  they  meant  — 
To  wash  the  blood  with  blood.     But  how 
If  you  are  innocent? 

Blackbird   singer,  blackbird  mute, 

They  choked  the  seed  you  might  have  found. 

179 


Out  of  a  thorny  field  you  go  — 
For  you  it  may  be  better  so  — 
And  leave  the  sowers  of  the  ground 
To  eat  the  harvest  of  the  fruit, 
Blackbird. 

Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse 

Ridgely  Torrence 


INTERLUDE 

Since  yesterday  has  been  no  word, 

Nor  voice  of  anything 

To  thrill  the  forest:  and  no  bird 

Has  any  heart  to  sing. 

Since  yesterday  has  been  no  track 

Of  Pan  nor  any  power, 

To  lure  the  gypsy  summer  back, 

And  fool  a  single  flower. 

Poetry:    A    Magazine    of    Verse.     William    Griffith. 


SPRING  SONG 

Softly  at  dawn  a  whisper  stole 

Down  from  the  Green  House  on  the  Hill, 

Enchanting  many  a  ghostly  bole 

And  wood  song  with  the  ancient  thrill. 

Gossiping  on  the  countryside, 

Spring  and  the  wandering  breezes  say 

God  has  thrown  heaven  open  wide 
And  let  the  thrushes  out  today. 

Poetry:     A    Magazine    of    Verse.     William    Griffith. 
180 


CASSANDRA 

I  heard  one  who  said:  "Verily, 

What  word  have  I  for  children  here? 

Your  Dollar  is  your  only  Word, 
The  wrath  of  It  your  only  fear. 

"  You  built  It  altars  tall  enough 

To  make  you  see;  but  you  are  blind; 

You  cannot  leave  It  long  enough 
To  look  before  you  or  behind. 

"  When  Reason  beckons  you  to  pause, 
You  laugh  and  say  that  you  know  best; 

But  what  it  is  you  know,  you  keep 
As  dark  as  ingots  in  a  chest. 

"  You  laugh  and  answer,  '  We  are  young; 

O  leave  us  now,  and  let  us  grow ' — 
Not  asking  how  much  more  of  this 

Will  Time  endure  or  Fate  bestow. 

"  Because  a  few  complacent  years 
Have  made  your  peril  of  your  pride, 

Think  you  that  you  are  to  go  on 
Forever  pampered  and  untried? 

"  What  lost  eclipse  of  history, 
What  bivouac  of  marching  stars, 

Has  given  the  sign  for  you  to  see 
Millenniums  and  last  great  wars? 

"  What  unrecorded  overthrow 
Of  all  the  world  has  ever  known, 

Or  ever  been,  has  made  itself 
So  plain  to  you,  and  you  alone  ? 

"  Your  Dollar,  Dove,  and  Eagle  make 
A  trinity  that  even  you 

181 


Rate  higher  than  you  rate  yourselves ; 
It  pays,  it  flatters,  and  it's  new. 

"  And  though  your  very  flesh  and  blood 
Be  what  your  Eagle  eats  and  drinks, 

You'll  praise  him  for  the  best  of  birds, 
Not  knowing  what  the  Eagle  thinks. 

"  The  power  is  yours,  but  not  the  sight ; 

You  see  not  upon  what  you  tread ; 
You  have  the  ages  for  your  guide, 

But  not  the  wisdom  to  be  led. 

"  Think  you  to  tread  forever  down 

The  merciless  old  verities? 
And  are  you  never  to  have  eyes 

To  see  the  world  for  what  it  is? 

"  Are  you  to  pay  for  what  you  have 
With  all  you  are  ?  " —  No  other  word 

We  caught;  but  with  a  laughing  crowd 
Moved  on.     None  heeded,  and  few  heard. 

Boston  Transcript       Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 


SAINTE  JEANNE  OF  FRANCE 
1915 

Sainte  Jeanne  went  harvesting  in  France, 

But  ah !  what  found  she  there  ? 
The  little  streams  were  running  red, 

And  the  torn  fields  were  bare; 
And  all  about  the  ruined  towers 

Where  once  her  king  was  crowned, 
The  hurtling  ploughs  of  war  and  death 

Had  scored  the  desolate  ground. 

182 


Sainte  Jeanne  turned  to  the  hearts  of  men, 

That  harvest  might  not  fail; 
Her  sword  was  girt  upon  her  thigh, 

Her  dress  was  silvern  mail; 
And  all  the  war-worn  ranks  were  glad 

To  feel  her  presence  shine; 
Her  smile  was  like  the  mellow  sun 

Along  that  weary  line. 

She  gave  her  silence  to  their  lips, 

Her  visions  to  their  eyes, 
And  the  quick  glory  of  her  sword 

She  lent  to  their  emprise; 
The  shadow  of  her  gentle  hand 

Touched  Belgium's  burning  cross, 
And  set  the  seal  of  power  and  praise 

On  agony  and  loss. 

Sainte  Jeanne  went  harvesting  in  France, 

And   oh !   what   found   she  there  ? 
The  brave  seed  of  her  scattering 

In  fruitage  everywhere  ; 
And  where  her  strong  and  tender  heart 

Was  broken  in  the  flame, 
She  found  the  very  heart  of  France 

Had  flowered  to  her  name. 

The  Nation  Marion  Couthouy  Smith 


TO  MY  COUNTRY 

One  told  me  he  had  heard  it  whispered :    "  Lo ! 
The  hour  has  come  when  Europe,  desperate 
With  sudden  war  and  terrible  swift  hate, 

Rocks  like  a  reed  beneath  the  mighty  blow. 

183 


Therefore  shall  we,  in  this  her  time  of  woe, 
Profit  and  prosper,  since  her  ships  of  state 
Go  down  in  darkness.     Kind,  thrice  kind  is  Fate, 

Leaving  our  land  secure,  our  grain  to  grow !  " 

America!     They  blaspheme  and  they  lie 
Who  say  these  are  the  voices  of  your  sons ! 

In  this  foul  night,  when  nations  sink  and  die, 
No  thought  is  here  save  for  the  fallen  ones 
Who,  underneath  the  ruin  of  old  thrones, 

Suffer  and  bleed,  and  tell  the  world  good-by ! 

Everybody's  Magazine      Charles  Hanson  Towne 


184 


THE  YEAR  BOOK 
OF  AMERICAN  POETRY 


185 


INDEX  OF  POETS  AND  POEMS 

PUBLISHED  IN  AMERICAN  MAGAZINES 
DURING  1915 

Poems  printed  in  the  Anthologies  for  1913  and  1914  are 
indexed  and  characterized  by  the  letter  A.  and  date. 
The  asterisks  denote  the  poems  of  distinction  in  the  maga 
zines. 

Anon.  EVOLUTION,  The  Masses,  June;  INSPIRATION  (To  R.), 
The  Los  Angeles  Graphic,  May  22;  LINES  WRITTEN  ON 
WALLS  OF  OLD  BLANDFORD  CHURCH,  Southern  Woman's 
Magazine,  March;  RED  AS  THE  WINE  OF  FORGOTTEN 
AGES,  Southern  Woman's  Magazine,  June;  ROADSIDE 
REST,*  From  a  Newspaper;  "  SEE  .  .  .,"  The  Masses, 
August;  SONG,  The  Smart  Set,  May;  THE  BALLAD  OF 
SHIPS  IN  HARBOR,*  The  Smart  Set,  March;  To  M.,  The 
Little  Review,  June-July;  To  THE  SOUTHERN  WOMAN, 
Southern  Woman's  Magazine,  March. 

Abey,  Stanley  G.,  NURSERY  VEHSERY,  The  Los  Angeles 
Graphic,  January  16. 

Aiken,  Conrad,  DISCORDANTS,*  Poetry;  A  Magazine  of 
Verse,  September;  INNOCENCE,*  The  Poetry  Journal, 
June;  ROMANCE,  x-/.191t. 

Atkins,  Zoe,  PREMONITION,  The  Century  Magazine,  Decem 
ber,  1914;  THE  RETURN,  The  Century  Magazine,  Febru 
ary;  THE  SNOW  GARDENS,  The  Century  Magazine,  No 
vember,  1914;  THE  WANDERER,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of 
Verse,  January. 

Aldington,  Richard,  BLUE,  A  CONCEIT,  The  Little  Review, 
June-July;  CHRISTINE,  The  Little  Review,  June-July; 
INTERLUDE,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  February; 
PALACE  Music  HALL  (L/ES  SYLHIDES),  To  NIJINSKY, 
Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  February;  POEMS  OF 
MYRRHINE,  MITYLENE,  AND  KONALLIS,*  The  Little  Re 
view,  August;  THE  RETORT  DISCOURTEOUS,  The  Little 
Review,  June-July. 

Aldis,  Mary,  THE  WORLD  CRY,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of 
Verse,  May. 

Algol,  GOURMANDESGUE,  The  Los  Angeles  Graphic,  Novem 
ber  21,  1914;  To  THE  MEN  OF  MY  COUNTRY,  The 
Los  Angeles  Graphic,  November  21,  1914. 

187 


Allen,  Grace  Cook,  A  VALENTINE  (To  MY  MOTHER),  South 
ern  Woman's  Magazine,  February;  FINDING  GOD,  South 
ern  Woman's  Magazine,  December,  1914;  THE  HEART 
OF  THINGS,  Southern  Woman's  Magazine,  June;  To 
MADISON  CAWEIN,  Southern  Woman's  Magazine,  July. 

Amid,  John,  THE  BURNING  POMPANO,  The  Bellman,  Sep 
tember  4;  THE  TAIL  OF  THE  WORLD,  The  Masses, 
February. 

Anderson,  Margaret  Steele,  MADISON  CAWEIN,*  Louisville 
Evening  Post,  December  12,  1914. 

Anderson,  W.  H.,  AT  THE  GOLDEN  GATE:  MORNING,  EVEN 
ING,  The  Los  Angeles  Graphic,  May  29;  SYMPATHY, 
The  Los  Angeles  Graphic,  May  8;  WORDS,  The  Los 
Angeles  Graphic,  February  20. 

Anderson,  William  Ashley,  SHANGHAI,*  Everybody's  Maga 
zine,  November,  1914. 

Andrews,  Charlton,  A  BALLADE  OF  BLITHE  ROMANCE,  The 
Bookman,  March. 

Andreyer,  Leonid  (trans,  by  Lo  Pasrolsky),  BELGIUM,* 
N.  Y.  Times  Magazine,  April  25. 

Arata,  Oliver  S.,  THE  IRIS,  The  Colonnade,  August;  To  A 
JAPANESE  NIGHTINGALE,  The  Colonnade,  August. 

Arensberg,  Walter  Conrad,  AN  EPITAPH,  .4.1914;  FOR 
FORMS  THAT  ARE  FREE,  Others,  A  Magazine  of  the  New 
Verse,  September;  JUNE,  Others,  A  Magazine  of  the 
New  Verse,  September;  THE  VOICE  OF  ONE  DEAD,* 
Others,  A  Magazine  of  the  New  Verse,  September; 
To  A  GARDEN  IN  APRIL,  A.  1914;  To  THE  NECROPHILE, 
A.  1914;  VAIN  EXCUSE,  A.  1914;  VOYAGE  A  L'!NFINI,* 
Others,  A  Magazine  of  the  New  Verse,  September. 

Ashley,  Margaret  Lee,  IN  APRIL,  ,4.1913. 

Auerbach,  Joseph  S.,  THE  BATTLE  OF  NEUVE  CHAPELLE, 
North  American  Review,  May. 

Auringer,  O.  C.,  STARLIGHT  SONG,  The  Colonnade,  Septem 
ber. 

Ayres,  Malcolm  B.,  IN  JUNE,  The  Colonnade,  July;  THE 
GIPSY  ROAD,  The  Colonnade,  June. 

B.  R.,  SAVING  THE  UNION,  The  Los  Angeles  Graphic,  No 
vember  14,  1914. 

Bacon,  Virginia  Cleaver,  REVELATION,  The  Los  Angeles 
Graphic,  December  26,  1914;  THE  MERMAID,  The 
Los  Angeles  Graphic,  May  8. 

Baker,   Karle  Wilson,   OF  ITALY,   The   Colonnade,  March; 

188 


To  THE  MARCHING  WOMEN,  Southern  Woman's  Maga 
zine,  July. 

Baldwin,  Faith,  THE  LAST  DEMAND,  A.  1914. 

Bangs,  John  Kendrick,  A  CHRISTMAS  VISION,  Scribner's 
Magazine,  December,  1914. 

Barber,  Frances,  THE  TRUE  CONCORD,  The  Tale  Review, 
April. 

Barlow,  Jane,  A  KNELL  AND  A  CHIME,  Reedy's  Mirror, 
January  22. 

Barnard,  Seymour,  PHILANTHROPY:  A  COMIC  OPERA,  The 
Masses,  March. 

Barr,  Simon,  IN  THE  OFFICE,*  The  Independent. 

Barrett,  Wilton  Agnew,  BEYOND  THE  BOUNDS,  Harper's 
Magazine,  May. 

Barrington,  Pauline  B.,  THE  HAND  OF  GOD,  The  Los  Ange 
les  Graphic,  January  9;  To  A  DANCER,  The  Los  Angeles 
Graphic,  June  26. 

Bartlett,  Randolph,  BUILDERS  OF  A  WORLD,  The  Los  Angeles 
Graphic,  March  13. 

Batchelder,  Ann,  THE  ANCIENT  ONE,  The  Smart  Set,  April. 

Beach,  Joseph  Warren,  CAVE  TALK,*  Poetry:  A  Magazine 
of  Verse,  May;  OLD  GLORY  AT  CALUMET,  A  COPPER- 
COUNTRY  BALLAD,  The  Masses,  November  14,  1914; 
JENNY'S  DANCING,*  Poetry :  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  May; 
RUE  BONAPARTE,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  May; 
THE  MASSEUR,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  May; 
THE  POINT  OF  VIEW,*  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse, 
May;  THE  VIEW  AT  GUNDERSON'S,*  Poetry:  A  Maga 
zine  of  Verse,  May. 

Beall,  Dorothy  Landers,  THE  PHARISEE,  The  Forum,  April. 

Beard,  Theresa  Virginia,  CHRISTMAS  NIGHT  IN  BELGIUM, 
The  Bellman,  December  19,  1914;  HERITAGE,*  The  Bell 
man,  May  15. 

Beaudin,  Nicolas  (trans,  by  Edward  J.  O'Brien),  PAHOZYST 
POEMS:  MODERN  PARIS,*  EXALTATION  IN  AN  AEROPLANE,* 
Reedy's  Mirror,  December  18,  1914. 

Beers,  Henry  A.,  THE  REMAINDER,  The  Yale  Review,  July. 

Belfield,  Jane,  AT  ESHOL,*  Southern  Woman's  Magazine, 
February;  BID  THE  NIGHT  PASS,  Southern  Woman's 
Magazine,  July;  GODSPEED!  A.  1914. 

Benlt,  Laura,  FAIRY  TALES,*  The  Outlook,  March  27. 

Bendt,  William  Rose,  DAN.E,  The  Century  Magazine,  Feb 
ruary;  LIGHTS  THROUGH  THE  MIST,  A.1914-;  ON  A 
WINDOW  DISPLAY,*  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse, 

189 


August;  THE  EMOTIONALIST,  The  Masses,  July;  THE 
FURNACE,*  The  Century  Magazine,  March;  THE 
HAUNTED  WOOD, —  ONE  WOMAN  SPEAKS,  The  Century 
Magazine,  January;  THE  MARVELOUS  MUNCHAUSEN, 
A.  1913;  THE  MYSTERIOUS  ONES,  The  Century,  July; 
THE  WORDS  OF  THE  ELEPHANT,*  The  Poetry  Journal, 
May;  WISH-HORSES,*  The  Century  Magazine,  May. 

Benet,  Stephen  Vincent,  WINGED  MAN,*  The  New  Repub 
lic,  August  7. 

Benton,  Rita,  OUR  DAILY  BREAD,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of 
Verse,  April. 

Biddle,  L.  L.,  To  A  LOVED  ONE,  The  Bookman,  July. 

Bishop,  Morris,  BEAR  CREEK,  PENNSYLVANIA,  The  Colon 
nade,  December,  1914. 

Blood,  Benjamin  Paul,  BELGIUM,  Scribner's  Magazine, 
March. 

Bodenheim,  Maxwell,  A  HEAD,  The  Little  Review,  May; 
AFTER  WRITING  POETRY,  Others,  A  Magazine  of  the  New 
Verse,  September;  AN  ABANDONED  AMUSEMENT  PARK, 
The  New  Republic,  August  7;  SILENCE,*  The  Little 
Review,  May;  SUNDAY  IN  A  CERTAIN  CITY  SUBURB, 
Others,  A  Magazine  of  the  New  Verse,  September;  THE 
OPERATION,*  The  Little  Review,  May;  THE  REAR- 
PORCHES  OF  AN  APARTMENT  BUILDING,*  Others,  A  Maga 
zine  of  the  New  Verse,  September;  THE  VAGABOND  IN 
THE  PARK,  Others,  A  Magazine  of  New  Verse,  Sep 
tember. 

Boutelle,  Grace  Hodson,  SPRING  AT  THE  BRITISH  MUSEUM, 
The  Bellman,  April  10. 

Boyton,  W.  G.,  BRITISH  HALF  AND  HALF,  The  Masses,  July. 

Braley,  Berton,  To  A  PHOTOGRAPHER,  A.  1914. 

Bretherton,  Cyril  H.,  AT  POINT  PINOS,*  The  Los  Angeles 
Graphic,  February  20. 

Brewster,  Cora  Colbert,  MORNING  GLORIES,  Southern  Wom 
an's  Magazine,  May. 

Bridges,  Robert  (Poet  Laureate),  THE  PHILOSOPHER  TO  His 
MISTRESS,*  Scribner's  Magazine,  September. 

Briggs,  Carey,  C.  D.,  ALPHA  AND  OMEGA,  The  Colonnade, 
July;  MONOCHROME,  The  Colonnade,  December,  1914; 
SIDNEY  LANIER,  The  Colonnade,  September. 

Briton,  Eloise,  THE  Two  FLAMES,  A.  1914. 

Brody,  Alter,  I  AM  WAR,*  The  Outlook,  June  23;  THE 
BALLAD  OF  THE  IRON  CROSS,  The  Outlook,  June  2. 

Bronte,  Charlotte,  Emily,  Anne,  and  Brauwell,  POEMS,* 
N.  T.  Times  Magazine  Section,  April  18. 

190 


Brooke,  Rupert,  PEACE,*  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse, 
April;  RETROSPECT,*  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse, 
October,  1914;  THE  DEAD,*  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of 
Verse,  April;  THE  SOLDIER,*  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of 
Verse,  April. 

Brooks,  Walter  R.,  HAUNTED,*  The  Century  Magazine, 
April. 

Brown,  Abbie  Farwell,  THE  FAIRY  FORT,*  The  Bellman, 
December  19,  1914. 

Brown,  Elmer  Ellsworth,  ONE  MAY  DAY,*  The  Colonnade, 
May. 

Brown,  Robert  Carlton,  A  NICE  AFFECTIONATE  GIRL,  The 
Smart  Set,  July;  A  THING  NEED  Nor  BE  HIGH-SOUND 
ING,  The  Masses,  June;  COB-WEBS,  The  Masses,  June; 
DUMB,  Bur  WELL-DBESSED,  The  Masses,  June;  GIRL, 
The  Smart  Set,  August;  I  AM  ALADDIN,  Others,  A 
Magazine  of  the  New  Verse,  August;  I  AM  HUNGRY, 
The  Masses,  June;  ILLUMINATION,  The  Masses,  June; 
THESE  THINGS  I  LOVE,  The  Smart  Set,  May;  You 
TURNED,  The  Masses,  February. 

Browne,  Maurice,  NIGHTFALL,  Poetry :  A  Magazine  of  Verse, 
May. 

Bryson,  Lyman,  THE  GABMENT,*  The  Poetry  Journal,  June; 
THE  POPPY,  The  Colonnade,  January;  THE  PROPHET, 
A.  1914. 

Biihler,  M.  E.,  MONA  LISA'S  SMILE,  The  Bellman,  Janu 
ary  23. 

Bull,  Nina,  MIRACLE,  The  Masses,  October,  1914;  THE  WAR 
GODS,  The  Masses,  November  14. 

Burnet,  Dana,  DEDICATION,*  Harper's  Magazine,  July;  GAY- 
HEART,  A  STORY  OF  DEFEAT,*  North  American  Review, 
January;  HARVEST,*  Harper's  Magazine,  April;  HUN 
GER,*  Harper's  Magazine,  March;  IN  A  GARRET,*  SISTERS 
OF  THE  CROSS  OF  SHAME,*  The  Masses,  February;  SONG 
IN  THE  DUSK,  Harper's  Magazine,  February;  THREE 
SWORDS,  Harper's  Magazine,  November,  1914. 

Burr,  Amelia  Josephine,  ACTORS,*  The  Century  Magazine, 
June;  A  LYNMOUTH  WIDOW,  A.  1914;  A  POINT  OF 
HONOR,*  The  Century  Magazine,  May;  A  SPRING  SYM 
PHONY,*  The  Bellman,  May  1;  HERB  OF  GRACE,* 
Harper's  Magazine,  July;  IN  THE  ROMAN  FORUM,  A. 
1914;  MAGDALEN  TO  CHRIST,*  Scribner's  Magazine,  Janu 
ary;  PERUGIA,  A.  1913;  SLAVES,*  Harper's  Magazine, 
April;  THE  ANGEL  WITH  THE  SWORD,*  The  Outlook, 

191 


January  27;  THE  FLIRT,  The  Century  Magazine,  De 
cember,  1914,  A.  1914;  ULYSSES  IN  ITHACA,*  The  Bell 
man,  July  17;  VITA  NUOVA,*  The  Bellman,  June  19; 
WASTE,*  The  Smart  Set,  October,  1914. 

Burt,  Jean  Brooke,  THE  THINGS  DIVINE,  The  Outlook, 
August  25: 

Burt,  Maxwell  Struthers,  NIGHT,  Scribner's  Magazine, 
August. 

Burton,  Richard,  DESOLATED  GARDENS,*  The  Bellman,  June 
5;  FATE,*  The  Bellman,  August  14;  HERE  LIES  PIER- 
HOTT,  A.  1913;  HUMAN,  A.  1913;  THE  MESSAGE,*  The 
Bellman,  June  26;  THE  NEW  ROMANCE,*  The  Smart 
Set,  February. 

Buzzell,  Francis,  THE  FISHER  LAD,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of 
Verse,  February. 

Bynner,  Witter,  A  DINNER  TABLE,  The  New  Republic,  Au 
gust  7;  A  GREAT  MAN,  The  Smart  Set,  April;  A  SONG 
IN  THE  GRASS,  The  Smart  Set,  March;  A  LANE  IN 
GRENSTONE,*  The  Smart  Set,  January;  ANNUNCIATION, 
SONG  OF  THE  VOICES  OF  THE  UNBORN,*  The  Smart  Set, 
April;  HEART'S  CONTENT,  The  Bellman,  March  20;  HE 
PLEADS  WITH  THE  GENTRY  TO  PERMIT,  The  Masses, 
April;  I  HEARD  HER  SING,  The  Bellman,  August  21; 
LEST  I  LEARN,  A.  1913;  ON  THE  STREET,*  The  Forum, 
March;  ONE  DAY  I  RODE  PEGASUS,*  The  Forum,  Janu 
ary;  PASSAGES  FROM  A  POEM:  THE  NEW  WORLD,*  Poetry: 
A  Magazine  of  Verse,  April;  PATRIOTS,*  The  Bellman, 
May  8;  PRAYER  IN  TIME  OF  CIVILIZATION,*  The  Bellman, 
June  12;  SCARRON'S  EPITAPH,*  The  Little  Review,  June- 
July;  SHAKESPEARE,  The  Bellman,  October  17,  1914; 
SURETY,  A.  1914;  THE  CARDINAL'S  GARDEN,  VILLA  AL- 
BANI,*  The  Forum,  October,  1914;  THE  RADIANT  WORD, 
The  Smart  Set,  July;  THE  SHROPSHIRE  LAD,  The  Book 
man,  April;  To  A  PHOIBE-BIRD,  A.  1914;  TRAIN-MATES, 
A.  1913;  YOUNG  EDEN,  A.  1914;  VILLON'S  EPITAPH,* 
The  Little  Review,  June-July;  WAR,  A.  1914. 

Cabell,  James  Branch,  POST  ANNOS,*  Poetry:  A  Magazine 
.  of  Verse,  August. 

Campbell,  Alice  Ormond,  MODERN  Music,  Poetry:  A  Maga 
zine  of  Verse,  January. 

Campbell,  Laura,  A  FRAGMENT,  The  Forum,  August;  PIL 
GRIMAGE,  A.  1914. 

Campbell,  Nancy,  THE  APPLE-TREE,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of 

192 


Verse,  August;  THE  MONKEY,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of 
Verse,  August. 

Cannell,  Skipwith,  A  RIDDLE,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse, 
June;  IN  THE  FOREST,  The  Little  Review,  April;  THE 
COMING  OF  NIGHT,  Others,  A  Magazine  of  New  Verse, 
August;  THE  CROWN,  THE  PLATE,  AND  THE  BOWL,  Po 
etry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  June;  THE  DANCE,  The 
Little  Review,  April;  THE  FLOOD  TIDE,  The  Little  Re 
view,  April;  THE  TEMPLE  OF  HUNGER,  Poetry:  A  Maga 
zine  of  Verse,  June;  To  ENGLAND,  Others,  A  Magazine 
of  the  New  Verse,  August. 

Carman,  Bliss,  A  LYRIC,*  The  Smart  Set,  September;  A 
MOUNTAIN  GATEWAY,  A.  1913;  LORD  OF  THE  MORNING, 
Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  June;  NOON,  Poetry:  A 
Magazine  of  Verse,  June;  OFF  MONOMOY,*  Scribner's 
Magazine,  June;  OVER  THE  WINTRY  THRESHOLD,  A. 
1913;  PHI  BETA  KAPPA  POEM,  HARVARD,  1914,  A.  1914; 
THE  DESERTED  PASTURE,  A.  1914. 

Carducci,  Giosue  (trans,  by  Anne  Simon),  CONGEDO,*  Poet 
Lore,  New  Year's  Number.  1915. 

Carry,  Mabel  D.,  A  SPRING  SONG,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of 
Verse,  May. 

Carson,  Norma  Bright,  SONNET,  The  Colonnade,  January. 

Carter,  Louise  Adele,  ONE  LISTENS,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of 
Verse,  August. 

Gather,  Willa  Sibert,  A  LIKENESS,  PORTRAIT  OF  AN  UN 
KNOWN,  CAPITOL,  ROME,  A.  1913;  STREET  IN  PACKING- 
TON,*  The  Century  Magazine,  May. 

Cawein,  Madison,  A  CHRISTMAS  CATCH,  Southern  Woman's 
Magazine,  December,  1914;  A  GHOST  OF  YESTERDAY,* 
The  Bellman,  December  26,  1914;  ADVERSITY,  North 
American  Review,  February;  AT  THE  DAY'S  CLOSE,  The 
Bookman,  April;  AT  THE  END  OF  THE  ROAD,  A.  1914; 
HAPPINESS,  North  American  Review,  February;  IN  A 
TRAIN,  North  American  Review,  February;  LOVE,  North 
American  Review,  February;  ON  THE  ROAD,*  The  Bell 
man,  February  27;  THE  ELFIN  GARDEN,  Poet  Lore, 
Winter  Number,  1914;  THE  GARDEN  OF  HEARTS,  South 
ern  Woman's  Magazine,  September,  1914;  THE  NEW 
ART,  The  Bellman,  November  28,  1914;  THE  OLD 
DREAM,*  The  Bellman,  November  14,  1914;  THE 
SPECKLED  TROUT,  A.  1913;  THE  TROUBADOURS,  Poetry: 
A  Magazine  of  Verse,  January;  WHAT  THE  FLOWERS 
SAW,  The  Smart  Set,  March. 

193 


Cavallotti,  Felice  (trans,  by  Anne  Simon),  QUEL  CHE  So 
(WHAT  I  KNOW),  Poet  Lore,  New  Year's  Number, 
1915. 

CELEBRATED  POEMS  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR,  N.  Y.  Times  Maga 
zine  Section,  April  4. 

Cheyne,  Elizabeth  Gibson,  A  POET  TO  His  POEMS,  Poetry: 
A  Magazine  of  Verse,  September. 

Clark,  Badger,  SOUTHWESTERN  JUNE,*  The  Century,  June; 
THE  SPRINGTIME  PLAINS,  Scribner's  Magazine, 
April. 

Clark,  Charles  Badger,  Jr.,  THE  MEDICINE  MAN,  The  Bell 
man,  January  2. 

Clark,  Evans,  APPEAL,  The  Century  Magazine,  August. 

Clarke,  Helen  Archibald,  BALAUSTION'S  EURIPIDES,  A  DRA 
MATIC  VERSION  OF  "  BALAUSTION'S  ADVENTURE,"  AND 
"  ARISTOPHANE'S  APOLOGY,"  Poet  Lore,  New  Year's  Num 
ber,  1915. 

Cleghorn,  Sarah  N.,  ARCADIA  MANOR,  Everybody's  Maga 
zine,  December,  1914;  THE  CHILDREN  HAVE  GONE,* 
Everybody's  Magazine,  October,  1914;  THE  INCENTIVE, 
The  Masses,  April. 

Cloud,  Virginia  Woodward,  BLUE  BUTTERFLIES,  The  Smart 
Set,  May. 

Coates,  Florence  Earle,  AN  ADIEU,  A.  1913;  ART  AND  WAR,* 
The  Bellman,  January  9;  IN  WAR-TIME,  The  Bellman, 
February  29;  JEWEL-WEED,  A.  1914;  SHE  WILL  NOT 
HEAR,*  The  Outlook,  May  5;  THE  BRAVE,*  Harper's 
Magazine,  April;  THE  NEST,  Scribner's  Magazine,  Janu 
ary;  TIME,*  North  American  Review,  June. 

Cohen,  Solomon  Solis,  LOVE  CALLED  ME  AWAY,  Scribner's 
Magazine,  June. 

Colahan,  Ellwood,  THE  WATERFALL,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of 
Verse,  August. 

Colum,  Padriac,  POLONIUS  AND  THE  BALLAD  SINGERS,*  Po 
etry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  July;  THE  BEGGAR-WOMAN 
SINGS,*  The  Smart  Set,  May;  THE  WAYFARER,*  Poetry: 
A  Magazine  of  Verse,  April. 

Coll,  Aloysius,  THE  BIRTHRIGHT,  The  Smart  Set,  February. 

Conkling,  Grace  Hazard,  LITTLE  FLAKES  OF  SUNSET,  The 
Smart  Set,  December,  1914;  RHEIMS  CATHEDRAL,  1914,* 
The  Century  Magazine,  November,  1914;  THE  BARBERRY- 
BUSH,*  The  Century  Magazine,  September. 

Connolly,  James  B.,  A  GLOUCESTER  HELMSMAN'S  SONG, 
Scribner's  Magazine,  October,  1914. 

194 


Connolly,  Susan  Cornelia,  To  ONE,  Southern  Woman's  Maga 
zine,  April. 

Coole,  Ralph,  CRY  OF  THE  MOTHERS,  The  Los  Angeles 
Graphic,  January  9;  EL  CAKIHO  REAL  (THE  KING'S 
HIGHWAY),  The  Los  Angeles  Graphic,  November  21, 
1914;  RIDING  AT  NIGHT,  The  Los  Angeles  Graphic, 
November  14,  1914. 

Cooley,  Julia,  A  PRAYER,  Harper's  Magazine,  October,  1914. 

Cooke,  Marjorie  Benton,  THE  CABARET,  The  Smart  Set, 
January. 

Courtney,  Howard,  THE  NORTH  WIND,  Southern  Woman's 
Magazine,  March. 

Cram,  Mildred  Hanson,  THE  COWARD,  The  Smart  Set, 
August. 

Cranston,  Claudia,  FORGOTTEN,  The  Smart  Set,  June. 

Crapsey,  Adelaide,  THE  WITCH,  The  Century  Magazine,  De 
cember,  1914. 

Crew,  Helen  Coale,  "  FORTISSIMI  SUNT  BELGAE,"  *  The  Out 
look,  January  27;  "O  LAD!  O  LAD!"*  The  Century 
Magazine,  May;  SING,  YE  TRENCHES  !  *  The  Outlook, 
May  12. 

Crowder,  Calvin  Stoddard,  THE  AGNOSTIC,  The  Smart  Set, 
December,  1914. 

Crowell,  Merle  W.,  SEALED  SONG,  Southern  Woman's  Maga 
zine,  June. 

Cutler,  Julian  S.,  THE  OLD  CLIPPER  DAYS,*  Boston  Tran 
script,  March  6. 

D.  H.,  MOONRISE,*  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  March; 
SEA  IRIS,*  The  Little  Review,  May;  STORM,*  Poetry:  A 
Magazine  of  Verse,  March;  THE  GARDEN,*  Poetry:  A 
Magazine  of  Verse,  March;  THE  WIND  SLEEPERS,*  Po 
etry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  March. 

Daley,  Edith,  CON  SORDINI  (WITH  MUTED  STRINGS),  The 
Los  Angeles  Graphic,  May  29;  IN  AN  ORANGE  GROVE, 
The  Los  Angeles  Graphic,  March  20. 

Daniel,  Mary  Samuel,  THE  GUEST,  Harper's  Magazine,  Sep 
tember;  THE  OPEN  DOOR,  Harper's  Magazine,  July. 

Dargan,  E.  Preston,  ERECT,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse, 
April;  FOR  A  MAP  OF  MARS,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of 
Verse,  April;  HEARTILY  KNOW,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of 
Verse,  April. 

Dargan,  Olive  Tilford,  OLD  FAIHINGDOWN,  A.  1914;  PATH- 
FLOWER,  A.  1914;  BEYOND  THE  WAR,*  Scribner's  Maga 
zine,  January. 

195 


Darlow,  Gertrude,  REFLECTIONS,  The  Los  Angeles  Graphic, 
October  31,  1914;  WORDS,  The  Los  Angeles  Graphic, 
January  9. 

Dashiell,  Margaret,  A  SAMPLER,*  Southern  Woman's  Maga 
zine,  April. 

D'Aubigny,  Pierre,  AN  ODE  TO  MUNICH,  The  Smart  Set, 
December,  1914. 

Davies,  Mary  Carolyn,  CUSTOM,  The  Masses,  October,  1914; 
FIRELIGHT,  Southern  Woman's  Magazine,  January; 
GYPSYING,  Southern  Woman's  Magazine,  July;  LOVE- 
SONGS,  The  Century  Magazine,  March;  NECESSITY,  The 
Masses,  December,  1914;  Q.  E.  D.,  The  Masses,  April; 
REMINISCENCES,  The  Masses,  February;  SONGS  OF  A 
GIRL,  Others,  A  Magazine  of  the  New  Verse,  July. 

Davis,  Robert  H.,  UPON  SEEING  GERALDINE  FAHRAR  THROUGH 
MY  EAR,  The  Smart  Set  Magazine,  July. 

Dawson,  Mitchell,  CANTINA,  The  Little  Review,  May; 
HARPY,  The  Little  Review,  May;  SANTA  MARIA  DEL 
CARMINE,  The  Little  Review,  May;  TERMAGGIC,  The 
Little  Review,  May;  UNDER  THE  CYPRESSES,*  The  Little 
Review,  May. 

Day,  Sara,  THE  ATONEMENT,  Southern  Woman's  Magazine, 
May. 

de  Ford,  Miriam  Allen,  THE  MUSIC-MAKER'S  CHILD,*  Po 
etry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  January. 

de  Gourmont,  Remy,  EPIGHAMMES:  JE  N'AINE  PLUS,  Poetry: 
A  Magazine  of  Verse,  January;  LA  VASQUE,  Poetry: 
A  Magazine  of  Verse,  May. 

de  la  Selva,  Solomon,  A  TALE  FROM  FAERIELAND,*  The 
Forum,  July. 

de  Marthold,  Jules  (trans,  by  Barbara  Henderson), 
FRANCE'S  HYMN  OF  HATE,  N.  Y.  Times  Magazine  Sec 
tion,  July  4. 

de  Nerval,  Gerard  (trans,  by  Francis  Taylor),  DELFICA, 
Poet  Lore,  New  Year's  Number,  1915. 

de  Nery,  Amelie,  BALLADE  DBS  OLIVIERS,  The  Colonnade. 
July;  LA  CHANSON  DBS  AIGUILLES,  The  Colonnade,  July; 
REIMS,  The  Colonnade,  July. 

Dell,  Floyd,  APOLOGIA,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  May. 

DeMoville,  Mary  Felix,  THE  ANNUNCIATION,  Southern  Wom 
an's  Magazine,  March. 

Dillon,  Kathleen,  Two  POEMS  FOR  DANCING,  Others,  A  Maga 
zine  of  the  New  Verse,  October. 

Dix,  Beulah  Marie,  A  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  NICHOLAS,*  Poet 
Lore,  Autumn  Number,  1914. 

196 


Dodd,  Lee  Wilson,  ONLY  Nor  TO  BE  TOO  EARLY  OLD,*  Po 
etry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  January;  THE  COMRADE, 
Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  January;  THE  TEMPLE, 
Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  January. 

Dodge,  Arlita,  THE  CABARET  DANCERS,*  The  Bookman, 
August. 

Dodge,  Louis,  THE  CATHEDRALS,*  Reedy's  Mirror,  June  25; 
THE  FLAGS,  Reedy's  Mirror,  May  7. 

Dole,  Nathan  Haskell,  MIRAGE,*  North  American  Review, 
August;  SEA-MONSTERS,  North  American  Review,  Au 
gust;  SEALS,*  North  American  Review,  August;  THE 
METEOR,  North  American  Review,  August;  THE 
SUMMER  SEA,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse, 
August. 

Doughty,  Leonard,  MOWN  FIELDS,*  The  Smart  Set,  October, 
1914. 

Downing,  Elanor,  ON  THE  FEAST  OP  THE  ASSUMPTION,  The 
Catholic  World,  August. 

Draper,  John  W.,  ARIA  ITALIANA,  The  Colonnade,  March; 
DANSE  LANGUOREUSE,  The  Colonnade,  September; 
ELEGY,  The  Colonnade,  November,  1914;  FOR  YOUNG 
AMERICA,  The  Colonnade,  December,  1914;  To  A  CER 
TAIN  WAR  POET,  The  Colonnade,  January. 

Driscoll,  Louise,  A  VILLAGE  CHURCH,  Poetry:  A  Magazine 
of  Verse,  May;  THE  LILACS,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of 
Verse,  May;  THE  LOVER,  The  Smart  Set,  December, 
1914. 

Dudley,  Caroline,  THE  WHITE  WISDOM,  The  Poetry  Jour 
nal,  July. 

Dudley,  Dorothy,  LA  RUE  DE  LA  MONTAYNE  SAINTE- 
GENEVIERE,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  June. 

Duer,  Douglas,  THE  MERCHANT,  The  Century  Magazine, 
October,  1914. 

Duhamel,  Georges  (trans,  by  Sasha  Best),  THE  PRISON  IN 
SPRING,  Poet  Lore,  Autumn  Number,  1914. 

E.,  A.  G.,  To  TOM  DALY,  AFTER  READING  A  BOOK  OF  His 

VERSE,  The  Los  Angeles  Graphic,  July  31. 
Earle,  Ferdinand  Pinney,  A  WORD  FOR  LEO  FRANK,  Reedy's 

Mirror,  December  25,  1914. 
Eastman,  Max,  INVOCATION,*  The  Masses,  April;  THE  NET, 

The   New   Republic,  August   7;   To  A   MAD  DOG,   The 

Masses,  June. 
Edson,  C.  L.,  SUMMER  CHORES,*  Puck. 

197 


Eliot,  T.  S.,  THE  PORTRAIT  OP  A  LADY,  Others,  A  Magazine 

of  the  New   Verse,  September;  THE  LOVE  SONG  OF  J. 

ALFRED  PRUFROCK,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  June. 
Ellerbe,  Cecelia,  MADONNA'S  VISION,  The  Colonnade,  March. 
Endicoff,  Max,  EXCAVATION,  The  New  Republic,  May  15; 

THE  CITY,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  August. 
Erskine,  John,  ASH  WEDNESDAY,  AFTER  HEARING  A  LECTURE 

ON  THE  ORIGINS  OF  RELIGION,  A.  1914. 

Fabre,  Henri  (trans,  by  Elizabeth  Shepley  Sergeant), 
PROVENCAL  VERSE,*  The  New  Republic,  January  23. 

Ferris,  Walter,  NEW  LOVE  IN  A  STREET  CAR,*  The  Forum, 
June. 

Ficke,  Arthur  Davison,  BUTTERFLY,*  The  Century  Magazine, 
August;  I  AM  WEARY  OF  BEING  BITTER,  Poetry:  A 
Magazine  of  Verse,  March;  IMMORTALS  IN  EXILE,* 
Scribner's  Magazine,  March;  LIKE  HIM  WHOSE  SPIRIT,* 
Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  March;  MEETING,  Po 
etry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  March;  PORTRAIT  OF  A 
JUDGE,  Scribner's  Magazine,  July;  RUPERT  BROOKE,  A 
MEMORY,*  The  Little  Review,  June-July;  SNOWTIME, 
Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  March;  SONNET,  XXIX, 
A.  1914;  SONNET,  XXX,  A.  1914;  SONNET,  XXXVII, 
A.  1914;  THE  BIRDCAGE,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse, 
March;  To  RUPERT  BROOKE,  DIED  BEFORE  THE  DARDA 
NELLES,  APRIL,  1915,*  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse, 
June. 

Field,  Ben,  CALIFORNIA,  The  Los  Angeles  Graphic,  Novem 
ber  21,  1914. 

Finch,  Lucine,  Two  ON  THE  BATTLEFIELD,*  The  Outlook, 
July  91;  WHEN  LIFE  COMES  KNOCKING  AT  THY  DOOR, 
Harper's  Magazine,  July. 

Finley,  John,  A  BIHTHNIGHT  CANDLE,*  The  Century  Maga 
zine,  December,  1914;  A  FEAST  OF  TAHERNACLES,*  Scrib 
ner's  Magazine,  December,  1914;  "  TELEFUNKEN,"  * 
SONNET,  Scribner's  Magazine,  March. 

Fisher,  Mahlon  Leonard,  AFTERWARDS,  A.  1914;  AT  A 
CHILD'S  GRAVE,*  The  Bellman,  January  30;  DELIRIUM,* 
The  Forum,  January;  IF  ONE  SHOULD  COME,*  The 
Midland,  June;  NOVEMBER,  A.  1913;  REALIZATION,*  The 
Forum,  March;  THE  ANCIENT  SACRIFICE,  A.  1914;  THIS 
DAY  IN  SPRING,*  The  Bellman,  December  5,  1914. 

Fletcher,  John  Gould,  INVOCATION,*  Others,  A  Magazine  of 
New  Verse,  September;  NEW  YORK,  To  R.  D.,  Poetry: 

198 


A  Magazine  of  Verse,  July;  THE  CLIPPER  SHIPS,*  The 
New  Republic,  June;  THE  OLD  SOUTH,  To  H.  D., 
Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  July;  THE  POET,  The 
Poetry  Journal,  July;  WAR  SONG,*  Others,  A  Magazine 
of  the  New  Verse,  September;  WOMEN'S  SONG  AT  THE 
TIME  OF  THE  GHEEN-CORN  DANCE,*  Others,  A  Maga 
zine  of  the  New  Verse,  September. 

Flexner,  Hortense,  A  GIRL  IN  THE  CROWD,  The  Smart  Set, 
August;  THE  WINDS  OF  SPRING,  The  Masses,  May. 

Florance,  Richard,  ENVY,  The  Smart  Set,  June;  DEATH,  The 
Smart  Set,  May;  TWENTY-ONE,  The  Smart  Set,  Au 
gust. 

Folgore,  Luciana  (trans,  by  Anne  Simon),  THE  SUB 
MARINE,  The  Little  Review,  June-July. 

Foster,  Bernard  Freeman,  THE  ROAD  TO  TABTARY,  Harpers 
Magazine,  June. 

Fox,  Moireen,  LIADAIN  TO  CUHITHIH,*  Poetry:  A  Magazine 
of  Verse,  March. 

Fox,  Paul  Hervey,  A  CAPTAIN  OF  ROMANCE,  The  Colonnade, 
June;  A  BALLAD  OF  BUCCANEERS,  The  Bellman,  Jan 
uary  16;  THE  POTENCY  OF  PRAYER,  The  Smart  Set, 
July. 

Fowler,  Carlton  C.,  IN  A  CAF£,  The  Smart  Set,  December, 
1914. 

Francis,  William  Lamb,  CHANGE,  The  Colonnade,  December, 
1914;  SATYR  CHOIR,  The  Colonnade,  January. 

Frank,  Florence  Kiper,  A  GIRL  STRIKE  LEADER,  Poetry:  A 
Magazine  of  Verse,  October,  1914;  CITY  OF  HUGE 
BUILDINGS,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  October, 

1914.  ON    THE    JAIL    STEPS,    Poetry:   A    Magazine   of 
Verse,  October,  1914;  THE  "L"  EXPRESS,  The  Masses, 
June;  THREE   SONNETS,*  Poet  Lore,  Summer  Number, 

1915.  To  J.  L.,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  October, 
1914;  WHERE  SYMPATHY  PAYS,  The  Masses,  May. 

French,   Ellen   Angus,   THERE   WAS  A  MOON,*  Everybody's, 

October,  1914. 

Friedman,  Edward,  FULFILMENT,  The  Colonnade,  May. 
Frost,   Robert,  BIRCHES,*   The  Atlantic  Monthly,  August; 

THE  DEATH  OF  THE  HIRED  MAN,*  The  New  Republic, 

February   6;   THE    ROAD   Nor   TAKEN,*    The   Atlantic 

Monthly,  August. 

Galsworthy,  John,  DESERT  SONG,*  Scribner'f  Magazine,  Oc 
tober,  1914. 

199 


Garesche,  S.  J.,  Edward  F.,  SUN-BROWNED  WITH  TOIL,*  The 
Catholic  World,  July. 

Garvin,  Margaret  Root,  WHAT  WOULD  I  CARRY?  Southern 
Woman's  Magazine,  December,  1914. 

Garrison,  Theodosia,  THE  BROKEN  LUTE,  The  Smart  Set, 
July;  THE  PURITAN,*  The  Smart  Set,  June;  THE 
TINKER'S  SONG,  Southern  Woman'»  Magazine,  March; 
WHEN  HIMSELF  COMES  BACK,*  Puck,  July  17. 

Gates,  Ellen  M.  H.,  "  I  SHALL  Nor  CRY  RETURN,"  Harper's 
Magazine,  July;  How  STRANGE  IT  SEEMS,  Harper's 
Magazine,  August. 

Gfeller,  C.,  YVILLE,  The  Colonnade,  January. 

Gibson,  Lydia,  ARTEMIS,*  The  Masses,  March;  ESOERIS,* 
The  Masses,  March;  LOST  TREASURE,  A.  1914;  CITY 
DAWN,*  The  Masses,  June. 

Gibson,  Wilfred  Wilson,  BACK*;  HILL-BORN;  HIT;  IN 
THE  AMBULANCE,*  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse, 
August;  IN  THE  ORCHESTRA,*  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of 
Verse,  April;  NIGHTMARE,*  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of 
Verse,  August;  THE  BLAST-FURNACE,*  North  American 
Review,  March;  THE  GOING,*  THE  FEAR,*  Poetry:  A 
Magazine  of  Verse,  August;  THE  ICE -CART,*  The  Cen 
tury  Magazine,  August;  THE  HOUSEWIFE,*  Poetry: 
A  Magazine  of  Verse,  August. 

Gifford,  Fannie  Stearns  Davis,  IN  AN  OLD  LODGING-HOUSE,* 
Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  March;  THE  NEW 
HOUSE,  Harper's  Magazine,  January;  TO-NIGHT,  Poetry: 
A  Magazine  of  Verse,  March;  WIND,  A.  1913. 

Gilbert,  Morris,  A  GLOVE,  The  Colonnade,  January. 

Giltinan,  Caroline,  OVER  NIGHT,  A  ROSE,*  THE  COURTYARD 
PIGEONS,*  Boston  Transcript. 

Giovannitte,  Arturo,  LA  CISTERNA,*  The  Colonnade,  March. 

Glaenzer,  Richard  Butler,  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE,  The 
Forum,,  October,  1914;  SURE,  IT'S  FUN!*  Boston  Tran 
script,  March  24;  THE  MAID  OF  THE  WOOD,  The  Smart 
Set,  December,  1914;  THE  NEW  BEATITUDE,*  The  Book 
man,  October,  1914;  To  EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS,*  Reedy' s 
Mirror,  June  18;  To  SARAH  BERNHARDT,  The  Book 
man,  May. 

Glover,  Charles  W.,  JEANNETTE  AND  JEANNOT,  Reedy's 
Mirror,  June  4. 

Going,  Charles  Buxton,  THE  RESURRECTION  OF  PEACE,*  N.  Y. 
Times  Magazine  Section,  April  4. 

200 


Goldring,  Douglas,  HOME,  The  Smart  Set,  July;  VOYAGES, 
Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  May. 

Goodman,  William  McDonald,  A  DOUBTING  BROTHER, 
Southern  Woman's  Magazine,  August. 

Grant,  Robert,  THE  SUPERMAN,  The  Nation,  October  29, 1914. 

Gregg,  Frances,  PAGEANT,  To  H.  D.,*  Poetry:  A  Magazine 
of  Verse,  January. 

Greif,  Martin,  EVENING,  The  Smart  Set,  April. 

Griffith,  William,  AUTUMN  SONG,*  CANTICLE,*  Poetry:  A 
Magazine  of  Verse,  June;  CITY  PASTORALS,*  The  Inter 
national,  June;  HADLEYBURG,  INTERLUDE,*  Poetry:  A 
Magazine  of  Verse,  June;  LITANY  OF  NATIONS,  A. 
1914;  REQUIESCAT,*  SERENADE,*  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of 
Verse,  June. 

Griffin,  Bartholomew  F.,  IF!  A.  1914;  THE  OTHER  ARMY, 
A.  1914. 

Grimes,  Katherine  Atherton,  Bn>  THEM  BE  STILL,  Southern 
Woman's  Magazine,  May;  IN  THE  MIDST  OF  LIFE,  South 
ern  Woman's  Magazine,  November,  1914;  THE  GREAT 
EST  GIFT,  Southern  Woman's  Magazine,  March. 

Guiterman,  Arthur,  HILLS,*  Scribner's  Magazine,  July;  IN 
THE  HOSPITAL,  A.  1913. 

Hagedorn,  Hermann,  EARLY  MORNING  AT  BARGIS,*  Poetry: 
A  Magazine  of  Verse,  July;  FATHERLAND,*  Poetry:  A 
Magazine  of  Verse,  September;  I  WONDER,  The  Out 
look,  March  17;  LAW,  The  Smart  Set,  October,  1914; 
THE  GHOST,  A.  1913;  THE  PYRES:  A  WAB  POEM,*  The 
Outlook,  November  4,  1914;  THE  REFUGEES,*  The  Out 
look,  October  21,  1914;  THE  RETURN  OF  THE  HOUSE 
HOLDER,*  The  Outlook,  December  16,  1914. 

Haight,  Elizabeth  Hazelton,  AT  RAVELLO,  Poet  Lore,  New 
Tear's  Number,  March,  1915. 

Hallet,  Ethel,  REGRET,  The  Poetry  Journal,  May. 

Hammond,  John  Martin,  FROM  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY, 
The  Smart  Set,  July. 

Hankins,  Maude  McGehee,  DADDY  GANDER  RHYMES,  DON'T 
FORGET,  MUCKIE  MATCHET,  THE  JITNEY  MAN,  THE 
LITTLE  MOUSE  IN  THE  TRAP,  Southern  Woman's  Maga 
zine,  August. 

Hanlon,  John,  Two  SONGS,  The  Smart  Set,  July. 

Hanson,  Joseph  Miller,  PANAMA,*  Scribner's  Magazine, 
March. 

201 


Harding,  Ruth  Guthrie,  FROM  A  CAR-WINDOW,*  The  Smart 
Set,  May;  GROTESQUE,  A.  1914;  IN  A  FORGOTTEN  BURY- 
ING-GROUND,  A.  1913;  SONG,  A.  1914;  SONG,*  Boston 
Transcript,  September  25. 

Hardy,  Thomas,  A  HUNDRED  YEARS  SINCE,  North  American 
Review,  February. 

Harman,  Henry  E.,  A  SONG,  Southern  Woman's  Magazine, 
December,  1914. 

Hartpence,  Alanson,  DEFIANCE,*  New  York  Telegraph; 
REVENGE,  Others,  A  Magazine  of  the  New  Verse,  Au- 


Harrison,  Jake  H.,  APRIL  IN  THE  SOUTH,  Southern  Woman's 
Magazine,  April. 

Hauptmann,  Gerhardt  (trans,  by  Bernard  Raymund),  As 
AN  ^EOLIAN  HARP,  Poet  Lore,  Summer  Number,  1915. 

Hawthorne,  Hildegarde,  HAUNTED,  Harper's  Magazine,  July. 

Hayden,  Kathrin  P.,  A  ROOM,  Southern  Woman's  Maga 
zine,  September,  1914. 

Hayne,  William  H.,  IDEALS,  Scribner's  Magazine,  August; 
THE  KINGS,  The  Century  Magazine,  November,  1914. 

Healey,  Robert,  THE  DERELICTS,  Harper's  Magazine,  Febru 
ary. 

Hecht,  Benjamin,  ROMANCE,  The  Smart  Set,  June. 

Henderson,  Alice  Oliver,  A  MOUNTAIN  OF  FIRE,  The 
Little  Review,  August;  BREAKING  DOWN  BEAUTIFUL 
CHURCHES,  How  THEY  BURNED  HOUSES  DOWN,  Poetry: 
A  Magazine  of  Verse,  July;  KATHLEEN,  AFTER  SEEING 
KATHLEEN  NI  HOULIHAN,  Miss  UNGERICHE'S  JAPANESE 
PLAY,*  Th&  Little  Review,  August;  RIBBONS  IN  THE 
SUN,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  July;  THE  SNOW 
FLAKES,  The  Little  Review,  August;  WAR,  Poetry: 
A  Magazine  of  Verse,  July. 

Herford,  Oliver,  EPILOGUE,  SPOKEN  BY  Miss  ROSE  COGHLAN 
AT  THE  CLOSING  OF  WALLACK'S  THEATRE,  IN  NEW  YORK, 
ON  MAY  1,  1915v*  Boston  Transcript,  May  1;  LOUVAIN, 
A.  1914;  THE  WHIP-POOR-WILL,  The  Century  Maga 
zine,  March. 

Hervey,  John  L.,  A  CHINESE  IDEOGRAPH,  The  Colonnade, 
August;  Ex-Voro,  To  JOHN  MYERS  O'HARA,  WITH 
HOMAGE  FOR  "SAPPHO"  AND  "PAGAN  SONNETS," 
Reedy's  Mirror,  August  13. 

Hewitt,  Ethel,  HEART'S  TIDE,  A.  1913. 

Hewlett,  Maurice,  THE  EMPEROR  OF  ALMAIN,  The  Book 
man,  December,  1914. 

202 


Heyse,  Paul  (trans,  by  Bernard  Raymund),  ON  THE  DEATH 
OF  A  CHILD,  Poet  Lore,  Spring  Number,  1915. 

Hickey,  Emily,  THE  SPIRIT  INDEED  Is  WILLING,  BUT  THE 
FLESH  Is  WEAK,  MARK  xv.,  38,  The  Catholic  World, 
April. 

Hill,  Francis,  RICH  MAN,  POOE  MAN,  A.  1913. 

Hill,  Frank  Ernest,  AT  THE  FOOT  o'  MARKET,  The  Forum, 
May;  BY  GRACE  OF  BATTLE,  The  Forum,  April. 

Hindman,  Julia  Maxey,  FLOWERS,  Southern  Woman's  Maga 
zine,  June. 

Holley,  Horace,  CREATIVE,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse, 
May;  HERTHA,  Others,  A  Magazine  of  the  New  Verse, 
July;  LOVERS,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  May; 
RENAISSANCE,  The  Smart  Set,  February;  THE  IDIOT, 
Others,  A  Magazine  of  the  New  Verse,  July;  THE  SOL 
DIERS:  AN  IMPRESSION  OF  BATTLE,  The  Forum,  January; 
TWILIGHT  AT  VERSAILLES,*  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of 
Verse,  May;  You,*  Others,  A  Magazine  of  the  New 
Verse,  July. 

Hopkins,  Gertrude  Cornwall,  DEATH  MASKS,  The  Masses, 
November,  1914;  THE  WHITE-BLOOMED  BOUGHS,  The 
Smart  Set,  May. 

Hooker,  Brian,  THE  MAKER  OF  IMAGES,*  The  Yale  Review, 
April. 

House,  Nathan  Caleb,  A  MOTH,  The  Poetry  Journal,  July. 

How,  Louis,  RACHEL  COMFORTED,*  Harper's  Magazine, 
February. 

Howe,  Herbert  Crombie,  As  FROM  A  BELFRY,  The  Bellman, 
August  7. 

Howells,  Mildred,  GOD'S  WILL,  A.  1913;  IF  THIS  BE  ALL, 
North  American  Review,  August;  "  OH,  TELL  ME  How 
MY  GARDEN  GROWS,*  Harper's  Magazine,  August. 

Howland,  Charles  P.,  THE  MOUNTAINS  OF  DESTINY,  The 
New  Republic,  April  3. 

Hoyt,  Helen,  ACTION  POEM,*  ANNUNCIATION,  Poetry:  A 
Magazine  of  Verse,  August;  COMPARISON,*  LIVING, 
MENAIA,  RETURN,  The  Masses,  September;  "  ROOMING," 
The  Little  Review,  August;  THE  NEWBORN,  THE  SENSE 
OF  DEATH,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  August; 
TIME  TO  LOVE  ON  FEELING  ITS  APPROACH,*  WEATHER, 
The  Masses,  September;  WORDS  OUT  OF  WAKING,  The 
Little  Review,  May. 

Hoyt,  Henry  Martyn,  THE  FISHERS,*  The  Century  Maga 
zine,  June. 

203 


Huckfield,  Leyland,  HAUNTED  REAPING,  THE  MUSE  IK 
CHURCH,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  July. 

Huger,  R.  D.,  THE  RUST  OF  UNUSED  POWERS,  Poet  Lore, 
Spring  Number,  1915. 

Hugham,  Jessie  Wallace,  THE  REGENTS'  EXAMINATION,  A. 
1914-. 

"Humilis"  (trans,  by  Edward  J.  O'Brien),  BODY  AND 
SOUL,*  Poet  Lore,  Winter  Number,  1914;  INVOCATION,* 
Poet  Lore,  Autumn  Number,  1914;  LOVE  OF  LOVE,*  Poet 
Lore,  PREDESTINED  COUPLES,*  THE  HANDS,*  Poet  Lore, 
Winter  Number,  1914. 

Hunt,  Violet,  A  CALL  IN  HELL,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of 
Verse,  February. 

Hunter,  Frederic,  DEUS  BENIGNUS  ET  NATURA,  Poet  Lore, 
Autumn  Number,  1914. 

Huntington,  Francis  V.,  DESERT  INVOCATION,  The  Century 
Magazine,  February;  THE  TENNIS  PLAYERS,*  The  Cen 
tury  Magazine,  May. 

Hutchison,  Percy  Adams,  THE  SWORDLESS  CHRIST,  A.  1913. 

Isaacson,  F.,  FROM  THE  BOOKSHOP  DOOR,  The  Los  Angeles 

Graphic,  December  26,  1914. 
Ives,    Harriet,    LEGEND    OF    THE     HOLLY    TREE,    Southern 

Woman's  Magazine,  December,  1914. 
Iverson,  Sade,  WHO  WANTS  BLUE  SILK  ROSES?   The  Little 

Review,  May. 

Jenny,  Florence  G.,  ONE  WAY,  The  Colonnade,  July. 

Johns,  Orrick,  OLIVES,  Others,  A  Magazine  of  the  New 
Verse,  July;  SISTERS  OF  THE  ROSE,  THE  BATTLE  OF  MEN 
AND  GOD,  Poetry :  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  February;  THE 
DAUGHTER,  The  Smart  Set,  December,  1914;  THE 
HAUNT,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  February;  THE 
LAST  POET,*  The  Smart  Set,  April;  THE  MOON'S  BE 
TRAYAL,*  The  Smart  Set,  February;  THE  WHITE  BIRDS, 
The  Smart  Set,  May. 

Johnson,  Burges,  THE  RIDERS,  Everybody's  Magazine,  De 
cember,  1914;  THE  SERVICE,*  Harper's  Magazine,  Febru 
ary. 

Johnson,  James  W.,  THE  WHITE  WITCH,*  The  Crisis. 

Johnson,  Robert  Underwood,  GOETHALS  OF  PANAMA,*  New 
York  Tribune,  May  2;  THE  HAUNTING  FACE,*  New 
York  Evening  Post;  THE  CORRIDORS  OF  CONGRESS,* 
North  American  Review,  May. 

204 


Johnson,    Rossiter,    A    VETERAN-    BY    THE    WAYSIDE,*    The 

Colonnade,  May. 
Johnson,  William  Samuel,  PRAYER  FOR  PEACE,*  The  Forum, 

December,  1914. 
Joyce,  W.  H.,  THE  WAR  SPIRIT,  The  Los  Angeles  Graphic, 

January  16. 
Junkin,  Charles  Irvin,  MAXIMUM  AND  MINIMUM,  The  Smart 

Set,  October,  1914. 

K.,  H.,  THE   DISEMBODIED,  Smart  Set,  April. 

Kauffman,    Reginald    Wright,    PROMETHEUS.    The    Masses, 

February. 
Kemp,  Harry,  SKY  BATTLE,  The  Smart  Set,  October,  1914; 

TRAVEL,  The  Masses,  April. 
Kennedy,  Sara  Beaumont,   FRAGMENTS,  Southern   Woman's 

Magazine,  March. 
Ketchum,   Arthur,   A   SONG   BEFORE   TWILIGHT,  Poet  Lore, 

Winter  Number,  1914;  HOLIDAY,  The  Smart  Set,  Jan 
uary. 

Keeler,  Charles,  GANGA  DEVI,  The  Colonnade,  August. 
Kilmer,  Joyce,  IN  MEMORY  OF  LIEUTENANT  RUPERT  BROOKE,* 

The  Bookman,  September;  THE  TWELVE-FORTY-FIVE,  A. 

1914;  TREES,  A.  1913;  THE  WHITE  SHIPS  AND  THE  RED,* 

New  York  Times  Magazine  Section,  May  16;  WEALTH, 

The  Bellman,  September  18. 
King,    Georgiana    Goddard,    IN    THE    KEY    OF    BLUE,    The 

Forum,  April;  To  A  CHINESE  AIR,  The  Forum,  May. 
Kirchway,    Freda,    To    A    SOAP-BOX    ORATOR,    The    Masses, 

February. 
Knibbs,    Henry    Herbert,    APUNI   AYIS,    The   Los   Angeles 

Graphic,    January    9;    SUNSHINE    OVER    YUMA,*    The 

Smart   Set,   March. 
Kreymborg,  Alfred,  OVERHEAD  IN  AN  ASYLUM,  VARIATIONS,* 

Others,  A  Magazine  of  the  New  Verse,  July. 

L.,  A.  L.,  THE  WATER  WIND,  To  HENRY  LEVERETT  CHASE, 
Reedy's  Mirror,  July  30. 

Lansing,  John  G.,  IN  EXTREMIS,  Scribner's  Magazine,  Au 
gust. 

Lawrence,  Rebecca  Park,  ECCE  MYSTERIUM,  Poetry:  A 
Magazine  of  Verse,  July. 

Le  Gallienne,  Richard,  BALLADE  OF  AMARYLLIS  IN  THE 
SHADE,*  Puck,  June  5;  BALLADE  OF  A  DEAD  LADY,  A. 
1914;  DESIDERIUM,  A.  1913;  BALLADE  OF  THE  JUNK 

205 


MAN,  Puck*  May  15;  MAY  Is  BUILDING  HER  HOUSE, 
A.  1913;  THE  LAGGARD  SONG,  November,  1914;  WHEN 
I  Go  WALKING  IN  THE  WOODS,*  Harper's  Magazine, 
June. 

Leblanc,  Maurice  (trans,  by  Mrs.  William.  Flewellyn 
Saunders),  PRESENTMENT,  Reedy  Mirror,  August  6. 

Ledoux,  Louis  V.,  HYMN  TO  DEMETEH,  FROM  "  A  SICILIAN 
IDYL,"  A.  1913;  A  THRENODY,  IN  MEMORY  OF  THE  DE 
STRUCTION  OF  MESSINA  BY  EARTHQUAKE,  A.  1913. 

Lee,  Agnes,  A  ROMAN  DOLL  (!N  A  MUSEUM),  A.  1913;  AT 
DAWN,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  September;  A 
STATUE  IN  A  GARDEN,  Poetry:  A  Magazme  of  Verse, 
October,  1914;  LONG  DISTANCE  LINE,*  Poetry:  A  Maga 
zine  of  Verse,  September;  MOVING  PICTURES,*  The 
Bookman,  June;  RADIUM,*  The  Poetry  Journal,  June; 
THE  NESTING  LINNET,*  Youth's  Companion;  THREE 
GUESTS,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  September. 

Lewin,  Albert,  EVENING,  The  Colonnade,  February; 
L' ARMOUR  ET  LA  VIE,  The  Colonnade,  June;  LA  LUNE 
ET  L' ARMOUR,  The  Colonnade,  December,  1914;  THE 
MAUDLIN  MOON,  The  Colonnade,  August;  THE  OLD 
MOON,  The  Colonnade,  March. 

Lewisohn,  Ludwig,  THE  Two  LOVES,  The  Forum,  May. 

Lindsay,  Vachel,  EPITAPH  FOE  JOHN  BUNNY,  MOVING  PIC 
TURE  ACTOR,  Chicago  Herald,  May;  THE  CHINESE 
NIGHTINGALE,  A  SONG  IN  CHINESE  TAPESTRIES,  DEDI 
CATED  TO  S.  T.  F.,*  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse, 
February;  THE  FIREMEN'S  BALL,  A.  1914;  THE 
KALLYOPE  YELL,  A.  1913;  WHAT  THE  BURRO  SAID,  Chi 
cago  Herald,  May  7;  YANKEE  DOODLE,  A.  1914. 

Linn,  Edith  Willis,  To  PERSEPHONE  RETURNING,*  Rochester 
Post  Express. 

Littell,  Philip,  NOT  A  SPARROW  FALLETH,  The  Masses,  Jan 
uary. 

Loveman,  Robert,  SONG,  The  Smart  Set,  August. 

Livesay,  F.  R.  (translator),  AN  UKRAINIAN  WAR-SONG,* 
THE  UKRAINIAN  NATIONAL  ANTHEM,*  THE  YOUNG 
RECRUITS,*  Poet  Lore,  Summer  Number,  1915. 

Loving,  Pierre,  A  JAPANESE  TEACUP,  The  Colonnade,  Au 
gust;  SONG  OF  OPIATES,  The  Colonnade,  July. 

Low,  Benjamin,  R.  C.,  FOR  THE  DEDICATION  OF  A  TOY 
THEATRE,*  Scribner's  Magazine,  April. 

Lowell,  Amy,  A  COMPARISON,  Others,  A  Magazine  of  the 
Verse,  August;  AFTER  A  STORM,  The  New  Republic, 

206 


August  7;  ALIENS,  FENWAY  PARK,  LEAD  SOLDIERS,*  MAT 
EVENING  IN  CENTRAL  PARK,*  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of 
Verse,  September;  PATTERNS,*  The  Little  Review,  Au 
gust;  RED  SLIPPERS,*  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse, 
April;  SEA  COAL,  The  New  Republic,  August  7;  SOLI 
TAIRE,*  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  April;  STRAIN,* 
Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  September;  THE  FRUIT 
SHOP,*  The  Yale  Review,  July;  THE  PAINTER  ON  SILK,* 
Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  September;  THE  PED 
DLER  or  FLOWERS,*  TREES,*  Others,  A  Magazine  of  the 
New  Verse,  August;  VERNAL  EQUINOX,*  Poetry:  A 
Magazine  of  Verse,  September. 

Loy,  Mina,  LOVE  SONGS,  Others,  A  Magazine  of  the  New 
Verse,  July. 

Lyne,  Cassie  Moncure,  A  BOYISH  MEMORY,  Southern 
Woman's  Magazine,  February. 

M.,  MY  SECRET  (To  R.),  The  Los  Angeles  Graphic, 
October  3,  1914. 

M.,  M.,  THE  PUBLIC  SCHOOL  TEACHER,  The  Masses,  Oc 
tober,  1914. 

MacDonnell,  J.  S.,  PEACE  HATH  HER  HORRORS,  The  Los 
Angeles  Graphic,  November  28,  1914. 

Macdougall,  Allan  Ross,  A  SNAPSHOT,  The  Smart  Set,  June. 

MacKaye,  Arvia,  FIRE  CASTLES,*  THE  UNKNOWN  RACE, 
ZEPHYR,  The  Little  Review,  August. 

MacKaye,  Percy,  AMERICAN  NEUTRALITY,  A.  1914;  FIGHT, 
THE  TALE  OF  A  GUNNER  AT  PLATTSBURGH,  1814,  A.  1914; 
FRANCE,  A.  1914;  KRUPPISM,  A.  1914;  ON  FIRST  HEAR 
ING  AN  ENGLISH  SKYLARK,*  The  Poetry  Journal,  July; 
PEACE,  A.  1914;  SCHOOL,  A.  1913;  THE  REAL  GERMANY, 
A.  1913;  THE  RETURN  OF  AUGUST,*  The  Independent, 
August  9;  To  WILLIAM  WATSON  IN  ENGLAND,  A.  1914; 
WILSON,  A.  1914. 

MacKaye,  Robin,  THE  SWIMMING  POOL,*  To  A  TURTLE,  The 
Little  Review,  August. 

Mackeller,  Dorothea,  ENCOUNTER,  Harper's  Magazine, 
March. 

MacLeish,  A.,  GRIEF,  The  Yale  Review,  April. 

MacMillan,  Mary,  THE  LITTLE  GOLDEN  FOUNTAIN,  The 
Smart  Set,  June. 

Macomb,  Catherine  Sisk,  THE  HOMECOMING,  The  Smart  Set, 
January. 

Madone,  A  MOOD,  The  Smart  Set,  January. 

207 


Mallarmg,  Stephane  (trans,  by  Francis  Taylor),  LES 
FLEURS,  Poet  Lore,  Spring  Number,  1915. 

McCales,  W.  F.  CHLOE,  The  Bookman,  August. 

McCarthy,  John  Russell,  GOD'S  BLUE,  The  Colonnade,  Sep 
tember. 

McClure,  John,  ALL  THEY  THAT  PASS  BY,  The  Smart  Set, 
May,  EGO,  The  Smart  Set,  June;  THE  MERHY  MEN,  The 
Smart  Set,  August;  THE  NEEDY  POET  INVOKETH  THE 
GODS,  The  Smart  Set,  May. 

McCoy,  Samuel,  THE  FUTURE  —  VOYAGEUHS'  SONG,  Scrib 
ner's  Magazine,  May. 

McGaffney,  Ernest,  MY  LOST  LOVE,  The  Los  Angeles 
Graphic,  May  8;  STREET  ETCHINGS  (QUINTINE),  The 
Graphic,  June  12;  THE  SANDWICH  MAN,  The  Graphic, 
May  29. 

McGann,  Will  S.,  MY  LITANY,  Southern  Woman's  Maga 
zine,  June;  WINTER  IN  AHCADY,  Southern  Woman's 
Magazine,  January. 

McGiffert,  Gertrude  Huntingdon,  ALL  SOULS'  NIGHT,  The 
Century  Magazine,  December,  1914. 

McGill,  Anna  Blanche,  THE  ETERNAL  BUILDER,*  The  Bell 
man,  February  13. 

McKenna,  Edmond,  AFTER  THE  STRIKE,  The  Masses,  April; 
IN  THE  OUTER  SANCTUM,  The  Masses,  July;  PRELUDE, 
The  Masses,  October,  1914;  A.  1914;  To  THE  SUICIDES, 
The  Masses,  February;  WAR  CHANGES,  The  Masses, 
January. 

McKeehan,  Irene  P.,  INVICTUS,*  The  Forum,  May. 

McKinsey,  Folger,  A  LOVE  SONG,  I  SING  OF  LOVE,  The 
Smart  Set,  January. 

McRaye,  Betty,  DREAM  SWEETHEARTS,  The  Smart  Set,  July. 

McQueen,  Anne,  A  FLORIDA  CHRISTMAS,  Southern  Woman's 
Magazine,  December,  1914. 

Marinetti,  F.  T.  (trans,  by  Anne  Simon),  NOCTURNE  (Ix 
THREE  VOICES),*  THE  SONG  OF  LOVE  —  MENDICANT*  — 
Poet  Lore,  Autumn,  1914. 

Marks,  Jeannette,  THE  MARRIAGE  BARGE,  The  Poetry  Jour 
nal,  July. 

Marquis,  Don,  THE  GOD-MAKER,  MAN,  A.  1914;  THE  PARA 
DOX,*  New  York  Evening  Sun,  THE  TOWERS  OF  MAN 
HATTAN,*  Scribner's  Magazine,  June. 

Marshall,  Marguerite  Mooers,  GHOSTS,  A.  1913. 

Martin,  Edward  Sanford,  THE  BATTLESHIP  REMARKS, 
Scribner's  Magazine,  February. 

208 


Masefield,  John,  REVELATION,*  Harper's  Magazine,  Septem 
ber;  THE  CENTRAL,*  THE  UNEXPLORED,*  UNCOX- 
QUERED,*  Scribner's  Magazine,  August. 

Masters,  Edgar  Lee,  FATHER  AND  DAUGHTER,*  The  Little 
Review,  August;  SILENCE,*  Poetry,  A  Magazine  of 
Verse,  February;  SPOON  RIVER  ANTHOLOGY,*  Reedy's 
Mirror,  October  2,  9,  16,  30;  November  6,  13,  20;  De 
cember  4,  11,  18,  25,  1914;  January  1,  15;  THE  DEATH 
OF  SIR  LAUNCELOT,*  The  Smart  Set,  September;  WIL 
BUR  RANKIN,*  Reedy's  Mirror,  May  28. 

Matson-Dolson,  Cora  A.,  THE  OLD  MOTHER,  The  Smart 
Set,  July. 

Meiers,  Charles  P.,  MASTER  OF  THE  SEA,  The  Los  Angeles 
Graphic,  January  9. 

Merington,  Marguerite,  AFTERWARD,  Scribner's  Magazine, 
November,  1914;  PEHDITA,  Scribner's  Magazine,  Au 
gust. 

Meynell,  Alice,  LENGTH  OF  DAYS:  To  THE  EARLY  DEAD  IN 
BATTLE,  1915,*  North  American  Review,  March. 

Michelson,  Max,  O  BROTHER  THEE,  THE  BIRD,  Poetry,  A 
Magazine  of  Verse,  July. 

Middleton,  Scudder,  LOVE'S  PILGRIMAGE,  The  Smart  Set, 
April;  THE  GHOSTS,  Harper's  Magazine,  October,  1914; 
THE  WAX  MUSEUM  FOR  MEN,  The  Forum,  December, 
1914. 

Mifflin,  Lloyd,  BALBOA  IN  PANAMA  — 1513,  SONNET,  Scrib- 
ner's  Magazine,  April. 

Miller,  Alice  Duer,  NEWPORT,  A.  1914. 

Miller,  J.  Corson,  IN  MEMORY  OF  MADISON  CAWXIN,  The 
Bookman,  April. 

Miller,  Karl  H.,  A  MEMORIAL  DAY  REVERY,  Southern 
Woman's  Magazine,  May. 

Mistral,  Frederic  (trans,  by  Edward  J.  O'Brien),  THE 
COMMUNION  OF  SAINTS,*  Poet  Lore,  Summer  Number, 
1915. 

Mitchell,  Ruth  Comfort,  HE  WENT  FOR  A  SOLDIER,  A.  1914; 
THE  NIGHT  COURT,*  The  Century  Magazine,  Septem 
ber;  THE  OLD  MAID,*  The  Century  Magazine,  July; 
THE  SIN-EATER,  A.  1913;  THE  VINEGAR  MAN,*  The 
Smart  Set,  June;  QUIEN  SABE?  The  Smart  Set,  May. 

Mombert,  Alfred  (trans,  by  John  William  Scholl),  THE 
HEAVENLY  DRINKER,  Poet  Lore,  Summer  Number, 
1915. 

Monroe,  Harriet,  A  LADY  OF  THE  SNOWS,*  MOUNTAIN  SONG, 

209 


ON    THE     POHCH,*    THE    PINE,    THE    WATER    OUZEL, 

Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  August. 
Morgan,  Harriet,  LINES  FOE  Music,  The  Smart  Set,  April. 
Morthrop,    George    Norton,    WISDOM    "  RIPENESS    Is    ALL," 

The  Bellman,  December  12,  1914. 
Morton,   David,   THE    NIGHT   BREEZE,  Harper's   Magazine, 

November,  1914. 
Moore,     John     Trotwood,     BY    THE     ETERNAL,     Southern 

Woman's  Magazine,  February. 
Moore,  Marianne,   APPELLATE   JURISDICTION,   COUNSEL   TO   A 

BACHELOR,    THAT    HARP    You    PLAY    so    WELL,    THE 

WIZARD  IN  WORDS,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  May. 
Mountain,  Harcourt,  POEMS  AFTER  THE  CHINESE,  The  Smart 

Set,  March. 
Munroe,    Frederick    Mitchell,    MY    SOUL,    The    Smart    Set, 

August. 

Murphy,  C.  R.,  YOUTH,  The  Forum,  December,  1914. 
Murphy,  Ethel  Allen,  SONG,  The  Smart  Set,  October,  1914. 

Neihardt,  John,  AND  THE  LITTLE  WIND,*  The  Century 
Magazine,  June;  MORNING  GLORIES,  A.  1913. 

Nekrassov,  Nikolai  Alekseyevich  (trans,  by  Eugene  M. 
Kayden),  MOTHERS,  Spring  Number,  1915,  Poet  Lore. 

Nesbit,  E.,  SPRING  IN  WAR-TIME,  Harper's  Magazine,  June. 

Nicholl,  Louis  Townsend,  SANDS  MACCREE,*  The  Forum, 
April. 

Nies,  Konrad,  ERKENNTNIS,  The  Colonnade,  November, 
1914. 

Nipgen,  Alvin  Probasco,  VIOLETS,  The  Smart  Set,  October, 
1914. 

Norton,  Grace  Fallow,  A  SONG  OF  LOVE,  The  Smart  Set, 
February. 

Norris,  Mary  Rachel,  PAX  BEATA,*  Harper's  Magazine, 
April. 

Noyes,  Alfred,  A  SPELL  FOR  A  FAIRY,*  Harper's  Magazine, 
March;  THE  LORD  OF  MISRULE,  North  American  Re 
view,  May;  THE  RIVER  OF  STARS,*  The  Century  Maga 
zine,  July. 

O'Brien,  Edward  J.,  COELUM  CHORALE,*  IN  HOROREM  As- 
SUMPATIONIS  B.  V.  MARIAE,  REGINAE  COELI,*  The  Poetry 
Journal,  May;  IRISH,  A.  1914;  OF  MOIHA  UP  THE  GLEN, 
A.  1913;  SONG,  A.  1914;  THE  HOSTING  OF  THE  SIDHE,* 
Poet  Lore,  Summer  Number,  1915;  SONG,*  Boston 

210 


Transcript,  February  4;  THE  LAST  PIPEE,*  Boston 
Transcript;  UNDER  THE  STARS,  Boston  Transcript,  De 
cember  26. 

O'Donnell,  Charles  L.,  DROUGHT,  C.  S.  C.,  The  Catholic 
World,  June. 

Ogilvie,  Will  H.,  THE  PLOW,  The  Outlook,  July  28. 

O'Hara,  John  Myers,  ABLUTION,  A.  1914;  THE  GREEK 
QUARTER,  The  Smart  Set,  December,  1914. 

Oliver,  Camille,  SUNSET  HILL,  Reedy's  Mirror,  November 
13,  1914. 

Oliver,  Katherine  Elspeth,  THE  CONQUEROR,  The  Los  An 
geles  Graphic,  December  26,  1914. 

O'Neil,  David,  APATHY,  A  VASE  OF  CHINESE  IVORY,*  AN 
ASTRONOMER,*  COMPLAINT,  FIRST  LOVE,*  GREATNESS, 
MESSAGES,  Reedy's  Mirror,  September  17;  POVERTY,  THE 
ANCIENT  BURDEN,  THE  HEIGHTS,  VERNAL  SHOWERS, 
Reedy's  Mirror,  September  17;  MOODS  AND  MOMENTS, 
ONE  WAY  OUT,  OUR  SON  JACK,*  VICTORY,  The  Little 
Review,  April. 

Oppenheim,  James,  A  HANDFUL  OF  DUST,  A.  1914;  1915,* 
The  Enemy,  May;  PATTERNS,  A.  1914;  WE  DEAD,  A. 
1914. 

Opper,  Emma  A.,  LAIS  TO  HER  DOG,*  Scribner's  Magazine, 
May. 

Orr,  Patrick,  ANNIE  SHORE  AND  JOHNNIE  DOON,  Poetry: 
A  Magazine  of  Verse,  January. 

O  Sheel,  Shaemas,  THANKSGIVING  FOR  OUR  TASK,  A.  1913. 

O'Sullivan,  Seumas,  RESURGAM,  The  Smart  Set,  June;  THE 
ROSSES,  The  Smart  Set,  January. 

Ovington,  Mary  White,  MARY  PHAGAN  SPEAKS,  The  New 
Republic,  August  28. 

Pangborn,  Georgia  Wood,  MORNING  ON  THE  BEACH,  THE 
WALK  ON  THE  MOOR,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse, 
June. 

Pascal,  Rene,  ENTREATY,  Southern  Woman's  Magazine, 
April. 

Patrick,  Asa  Anderson,  LOTUS  AND  CHERRY,  The  Colonnade, 
April. 

Patterson,  Winneta,  GOING  HOME  AT  NIGHT,  The  Los  An 
geles  Graphic,  May  8. 

Patton,  Margaret  French,  NEEDLE  TRAVEL,*  The  Masses, 
July. 

211 


Patton,  Marion  Keep,  ON  YOUR  BIRTHDAY,  Harper's  Maga 
zine,  March;  SONG,  Harper's  Magazine,  February. 

Peabody,  Josephine  Preston,  CRADLE  SONG,*  Scrlbner's 
Magazine,  December,  1914;  HARVEST  Moon,  1914,*  Oc 
tober  7,  1914,  Boston  Transcript;  MEN-  HAVE  WIXGS 
AT  LAST,*  Boston  Transcript,  February  13. 

Peach,  Arthur  Wallace,  THE  REASON,  The  Smart  Set,  April. 

Percy,  William  Alexander,  BEFORE  DAWN,  The  Colonnade, 
June. 

Peterson,  Fredericka,  NORTHERN  SUMMER,  The  New  Re 
public,  August  1. 

Petrunkevitch,  Wanda,  DEATH  AND  THE  AVIATOR,  INCONSIST 
ENCY,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  August. 

Peyer,  Ethel  R.,  WHEN  I  GROW  OLD,  Harper's  Magazine, 
June. 

Pfeiffer,  Edward  H.,  HYMN  TO  THE  BODY  OF  MAN,*  Plati 
num  Print,  November,  1914;  THE  MYSTERY,  The  Smart 
Set,  January. 

Phelps,  Ruth  Shepard,  "  FUNERE  MERSIT  ACERBO,"  *  A.  1914. 

Phillips,  Stephen,  A  WOMAN  TO  SHAKESPEARE,*  The  Cen 
tury  Magazine,  January;  SILENCES,  The  Bellman,  No 
vember  21,  1914;  THE  HATCHING  OF  WAR:*  A  DRA 
MATIC  FRAGMENT,  North  American  Review,  January; 
WOMEN  AND  WAR,  The  Bellman,  October  24,  1914. 

Pickthall,  Marjorie  L.  C.,  APRIL  SONG,  The  Smart  Set, 
April;  "Nor  HERE,  Nor  HERE  THE  ROSE,"  The  Smart 
Set,  March. 

Pierce,  Frederick  Erastus,  GOD  AND  THE  FARMER,  A.  1914. 

Porcher,  Frances,  SPRING  IN  VIRGINIA,  Reedy's  Mirror, 
March  12. 

Pound,  Ezra,  ALBATRE,  The  Smart  Set,  August;  EXILE'S 
LETTER,  FROM  THE  CHINESE  OF  RIHAKU  (Li  Po),* 
DOGMATIC  STATEMENT  CONCERNING  THE  GAME  OF 
CHESS:  THEME  FOR  A  SERIES  OF  PICTURES,  IMAGE  FROM 
ORLEANS,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  o>f  Verse,  March;  LOVE- 
SONG  TO  EUNOE,  The  Smart  Set,  July;  PROVINCIA 
DESERTS,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  March. 

Poore,  Dudley,  ODE  IN  TIME  OF  BATTLE,*  The  New  Re 
public,  May  15. 

Price,  C.  A.,  THE  ERECT,  Scribner's  Magazine,  September; 
Vox  CLAMANTIS,  Scribner's  Magazine,  December,  1914. 

Pulsifer,  Harold  T.,  THE  LUSITANIA,  The  Outlook,  May  26. 

Ramos,  Edward,  IN  THE  GREEN  WOOD,  The  Poetry  Journal, 
July. 

212 


Rand,  Kenneth,  CREDO,*  The  Yale  Review,  January. 

Redpath,  Beatrice,  FIVE  O'CLOCK  TEA,  The  Smart  Set,  Au 
gust;  THE  RELEASE  OF  THE  SOUL,  The  Forum,  July. 

Resse,  Lizette  Woodworth,  BURNING  THE  LEAVES,*  The 
Smart  Set,  March;  HAWORTH  PARSONAGE,*  The  Forum, 
January;  MONDAY,*  The  Smart  Set,  February;  OLD 
HOUSES,*  The  Forum,  December,  1914;  TANKLE- 
TINKLE-TANK,  The  Forum,  February. 

Rethy,  Joseph  Bernard,  To  AN  OLD  MAN,  The  Masses, 
February. 

Reynolds,  Lucy,  A  GOOD  MAN,  OH,  THAT'S  DIFFERENT,  THE 
OLD  MOTHER'S  DEATH,  The  Masses,  December,  1914. 

Rice,  Cale  Young,  A  SIDMOUTH  LAD,  The  Forum,  February; 
PRINZIP,*  The  Century  Magazine,  November,  1914. 

Rice,  Grantland,  THE  VANISHED  COUNTRY,*  New  York 
Tribune,  March  10. 

Rich,  H.  Thompson,  TRANSPOSITION,  The  Smart  Set,  April. 

Richardson,  Joseph  Hamilton,  THE  LODE  STAR,  Southern 
Woman's  Magazine,  April. 

Rickett,  Edmond,  A  BALLADE  OF  THE  LIRIS,  Scribner's  Maga 
zine,  April. 

Rihani,  Ameen,  RENUNCIATION,  Harper's  Magazine,  August. 

Rilke,  Rainer  Maria  (trans,  by  Sasha  Best),  MY  BATTLE- 
CRY,  Poet  Lore,  Spring  Number,  1915;  THE  BOOK  OF 
HOURS,  Poet  Lore,  New  Year's  Number,  1915. 

Rizal,  Don  Jose  (trans,  by  E.  M.  Patten),  THE  LAST 
FAREWELL,*  Poet  Lore,  Summer  Number,  1915. 

Roberts,  John,  THOSE  BURGLARS,  The  Smart  Set,  July. 

Roberts,  Theodore  Goodrich,  As  You  TURN  THE  YEAR,  The 
Bookman,  March. 

Robinson,  Corinne  Roosevelt,  FROM  A  MOTOR  IN  MAY,*  The 
Outlook,  May  5;  A.  1914;  "  IF  You  SHOULD  CEASE  TO 
LOVE  ME,"  A.  1914;  TRADITION,  Scribner's  Magazine, 
August;  WE  WHO  HAVE  LOVED,*  The  Smart  Set,  Sep 
tember. 

Robinson,  Edwin  Arlington,  ANOTHER  DARK  LADY,  SON 
NET,*  Scribner's  Magazine,  December,  1914;  BOKARDO,* 
Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  September;  CASSANDRA,* 
Boston  Transcript,  December  21,  1914;  EROS  TURANNOS, 
A.  1914;  FLAMMONDE,*  The  Outlook,  January  16;  OLD 
KING  COLE,*  Scribner's  Magazine,  May;  PAUVHETTE,* 
The  Outlook,  June  30;  THE  GIFT  OF  GOD,  A.  1914;  THE 
FIELD  OF  GLORY,  A.  1913. 

Robinson,  Eloise,  RESURRECTION,  The  Outlook,  March  17. 

213 


Roby,  Henry  W.,  CHARGE  OF  THE  SURGEON'S  CORPS,  Reedy's 
Mirror,  August  13. 

Rockwell,  Leo  L.,  THE  OLD  MAN  OF  THE  SEA,  The  Colon 
nade,  April. 

Rodker,  John,  BACKTALK,  CELTIC,  COLUMBIA  BECOMES  "  AD 
VANCED,"  DAY-DREAMING,  EXCUSES  HIMSELF  FOR  BEING 
CONCERNED  AT  HER  GOING,  GOING  HOME,  HER  FIRST 
LOVE,  IN  DEFENCE,  INTERLUDE  —  NOSTALGIE  DE  L'IN- 
FINI,  PIERROT,  THE  BETRAYAL,  THE  COMPASSIONATE  PIL 
GRIM,  THE  EMPEROR'S  NIGHTINGALE,  THE  LUNATIC,  THE 
PLOT  THICKENS,  TWILIGHT  I.,  II.,  Others,  A  Magazine 
of  the  New  Verse,  October, 

Roffey,  Hall,  QUALCHE  COSA  VEDUTA,  Poetry:  A  Magazine 
of  Verse,  January. 

Rose,  A.  C.,  MOON  MAGIC,  The  Smart  Set,  July. 

Rostand,  Edmond  (trans,  by  Edith  Hopekirk),  THE  TOMB 
OF  ACHILLES  —  SONNETS,*  N.  Y.  Times  Magazine  Sec 
tion,  July  25. 

Rossner,  Oscar  H.,  To  A  DANCING  CHILD,  The  Masses, 
August. 

Roth,  Clare  Beach,  A  FLORIDA  SUNSET,  Southern  Woman's 
Magazine,  August. 

Russell,  Irwin,  CHRISTMAS  NIGHT  IN  THE  QUARTER,  South 
ern  Woman's  Magazine,  December,  1914. 

Ryder,  C.  T.,  DEDICATION,*  The  Bellman,  July  31;  THE 
WHIP-POOR-WILL,*  The  Bellman,  March  27. 


Sainsburg,  Helen,  EPITHALAMION,  SPRING,  Others,  a  Maga 
zine  of  the  New  Verse,  October. 

Samain,  Albert  (trans,  by  Sasha  Best),  VISIONS,  Poet  Lore, 
Spring  Number,  1915. 

Sanborn,  John,  "  CERTAINLY,  IT  CAN  BE  DONE  ! "  *  The 
Smart  Set,  April. 

Sanborn,  Robert  Alden,  A  WINTER  WALK  WITH  BARBY,* 
THE  LAUGHTER  OF  THE  WORLD,*  THE  CROWD,  THE  PINE 
TREE,  THE  POETRY  JOURNAL,  May;  To  A  CHILD  FALLING 
ASLEEP,  A.  1913;  To  BETTY  IN  A  BLUE  FROCK,*  The 
Poetry  Journal,  May. 

Sandburg,  Carl,  BUTTONS,*  The  Masses,  February;  CHOICES, 
GRAVES,  The  Masses,  June;  MURMUHINGS  IN  A  FIELD 
HOSPITAL,*  The  Masses,  May;  To  BILL  SUNDAY,*  The 
Masses,  September;  To  WEBSTER  FORD,*  Reedy's  Mirror, 
November  27,  1914. 

214 


Saphier,  William,  LIGHTS  IN  FOG,  THE  OLD  PRIZE  FIGHTER,* 
The  Little  Review,  April. 

Sargent,  Daniel,  PEACE,*  Scribner's  Magazine,  February. 

Sargent,  Irene,  To  THK  ADRIATIC,  The  Colonnade,  June; 
TOM'S  A-COL0,  The  Colonnade,  March. 

Schaffauer,  Ethel  Talbot,  NUMBER  THIRTEEN,  The  Century 
Magazine,  October,  1914;  THE  LOST  KINGDOM,  Poetry: 
A  Magazine  of  Verse,  January;  Two  INCARNATIONS, 
The  Smart  Set,  October,  1914. 

Schnack,  Fritz  (trans,  by  William  Saphier),  ECHO,  The 
Little  Review,  May. 

Schoonmaker,  Edwin  Davis,   NEW  YORK,  A.  1914. 

Scollard,  Clinton,  DUSK  AT  THE  PYRAMIDS,  The  Bellman, 
February  6;  LOVE'S  NEED,  The  Smart  Set,  April;  Our 
OF  BABYLON,  A.  1914;  THE  PINES,  Southern  Woman's 
Magazine,  December,  1914;  THE  LITTLE  INN  AT  DROME- 
HAIRE,  The  Smart  Set,  October,  1914;  THE  PLAYHOUSE 
OK  DREAMS,*  The  Bellman,  March  13;  THE  VOICE,*  The 
Outlook,  August  25. 

Seelig,  Clover  Hartz,  THE  DOCTOR'S  ANTHOLOGY:  TRAGEDY, 
ROMANCE,  THE  DOCTOR'S  CONFESSION,  Reedy's  Mirror, 
March  26. 

Seehg,  Hugo,  A  BAD  BUSINESS,  The  Masses,  October,  1914. 

Shanafelt,  Clara,  A  VIVID  GIRL,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of 
Verse,  May;  FANTASTIC,  INTERLUDE,  The  Little  Review, 
June-July;  INVOCATION,  PROVINCIAL,  Poetry:  A  Maga 
zine  of  Verse,  May. 

Shannon,  Harris  More,  BETTER  UNSAID,  The  Smart  Set, 
December,  1914. 

Shaw,  Adele,  ALL  SAINTS  DAY,  Southern  Woman's  Maga 
zine,  October,  1914;  THE  TIME  OF  THE  GOLDEN  ROD, 
Southern  Woman's  Magazine,  September. 

Shaw,  Frances,  SILENT  ONES,  THE  BECKONING  MOON,  THE 
CITY  LIGHTS  FROM  A  SKYSCRAPER,  THE  HARP  OF  THE 
WIND,  THE  ORGAN  ANGELS,  THE  RAGPICKER,  TREE 
VOICES,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  July. 

Shillaber,  B.  P.,  A  FEW  RHYMES  FOR  MRS.  OTIS  MERRIAM'S 
SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY  ANNIVERSARY,  FROM  AN  AUTO 
GRAPH  ALBUM,  Poet  Lore,  Spring  Number,  1915. 

Shillito,  Edward,  MISSING,  Scribner's  Magazine,  June. 

Shepard,  Odell,  IRON,  The  Smart  Set,  December,  1914; 
LOVE  AMONG  THE  CLOVER,  The  Smart  Set,  February; 
THE  ADVENTURER,*  The  Bellman,  July  10;  VISTAS,*  The 
Smart  Set,  April. 

215 


Sherman,  Stuart  P.,  KAISER  AND  COUNSELLOR,  ON  FIRST 
LOOKING  INTO  BEHNHARDI'S  "  OUR  NEXT  WAR,"  The 
Nation,  November  19,  1914. 

Sherwood,  Margaret,  THE  OLD  TECHNIQUE,  Scribner's  Maga 
zine,  March;  THE  UPPER  SLOPES,  Scribner's  Magazine, 
December,  1914. 

Skinner,  Constance,  HASHEESH,  The  Smart  Set,  March. 

Skinner,  Constance  Lindsay,  No  ANSWER  is  GIVEN  ;  *  SONG 
OF  THE  CONQUEROR  OP  WOMEN  ;  *  SONG  OF  THE  FULL 
CATCH  ;  *  SONG  OF  THE  LITTLE  SON  ;  *  SONG  OF  THE 
SEARCH  ;  *  SONG  OF  THE  YOUNG  MOTHER  ;  *  SONG  OF 
WHIP-PLAITING;*  THE  CHANGE-SONG;*  THE  CHIEF'S 
PRAYER  AFTER  THE  SALMON  CATCH,*  Poetry:  A  Maga 
zine  of  Verse,  October,  1914. 

Slaton,  Vivian  Vaughan,  WAR  BLIGHT,  N.  Y.  Times  Maga 
zine  Section,  July  11. 

Smith,  Clark  Ashton,  FIRES  OF  SNOW;  IN  THE  WIND,  Poetry: 
A  Magazine  of  Verse,  July. 

Smith,  Lewis  Worthington,  AGLAVAINE  ;  *  DRIFTWOOD, 
Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  September. 

Smith,  Marion  Couthony,  A  TOAST,*   Youth's  Companion. 

Smith,  Samuel  F.,  SYMBOL  OF  INNOCENCE,  THE  LADY  TO 
HUSBAND  ON  THE  TWENTY-FIFTH  ANNIVERSARY  OF 
THEIR  MARRIAGE,  Poet  Lore,  Spring  Number,  1915. 

Soule,  George,  SOLITUDE,  The  Little  Review,  May. 

Soldier,  By  a,  THE  ROAD  TO  TENNESSEE,  Southern  Woman's 
Magazine,  November,  1914. 

Spingarn,  Joel  Elias,  THE  THREE  DREAMS,  The  Masses, 
June. 

Spofford,  Harriet  Prescott,  THE  EMPTY  ROOM,  Scribner's 
Magazine,  February;  THE  VANISHING,  Harper's  Maga 
zine,  March. 

St  Vincent  Millay,  Edna,  ASHES  OF  LIFE,*  The  Forum, 
August;  INDIFFERENCE,  The  Forum,  March;  SORROW,* 
The  Forum,  November,  1914;  THE  DREAM,*  The  Forum, 
July;  THE  SHROUD,*  The  Forum,  October,  1914. 

Stafford,  Wendell  Phillips,  INVOCATION,*  The  Atlantic 
Monthly,  May;  LINCOLN,  1865-1915,*  Washington 
Evening  Star. 

Stanley,  Marion,  LIFE  AND  DEATH,  Everybody's  Magazine, 
November,  1914;  THE  MAGIC  LIGHT,  Everybody's  Maga 
zine,  October,  1914. 

Starbuck,  Victor,  THE  IDLER,*  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of 
Verse,  February;  THE  LAPSE  OF  HOURS,  The  Colonnade, 

216 


December,   1914;  THE  POET,*  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of 

Verse,   February. 

Stephens,  James,  CHECK  !  *  Harper's  Magazine,  March. 
Sterling,   George,   BALLAD  OF  Two   SEAS,  A.   1914;   NIGHT- 
SENTRIES,  A.  1913;   THE   HUNTING  OF  DIAN,  A.  1914; 

"  TIDAL,  KING  OF  NATIONS,  GENESIS  xiv.,  1-17,"  *  The 

Poetry  Journal,  June. 
Steriy,  Ruth,  SALUTATION,  A.  1913. 
Stevens,  Beatrice,  THE  SPIRIT  OF  SLEEP,  Southern  Woman's 

Magazine,  August. 
Stevens,  Thomas  Wood,   IN  THE   LABORATORY,   Poetry:  A 

Magazine   of   Verse,   October,   1914. 
Stevens,   Wallace,   PETER   QUINCE   AT  THE   CLAVIER,*;   THE 

SILVER  PLOUGH-BOY,  Others,  A  Magazine  of  the  New 

Verse,  August. 
Stockton,  James  Leroy,  THE   ADMONITION  OF  THE   HILLS, 

The  Bellman,  March  6. 

Street,  Charles  M.,  To  BE  OR  Nor  TO  BE,  Poet  Lore,  Au 
tumn  Number,  1914. 
Stuart,  Charles,  IN  PRAISE  OF  JOHN  BRADSHAW,  STRANGER, 

Southern  Woman's  Magazine,  March, 
Stuart,    Ruth    McEnery,    BROTHERHOOD,    North    American 

Review,  February;  APRIL  DREAMING,  Poet  Lore,  Winter 

Number,  1914. 
•Sutton,  E.,  THE    BUGLE,  A.   1914;   THE  DRUM,  Scribner's 

Magazine,  November,  1914;  A.  1914;  THE  PIPES  OF  THE 

NORTH,  A.  1914;  THE  TRAILING  ARBUTUS,*  The  Century 

Magazine,  May;  THE  WIND  IN  THE  CORN,*  Scribner's 

Magazine,  September. 
Swan,  Caroline  D.,  THE  SEA  WINDS,*  The  Catholic  World, 

June. 

Swift,  Ivan,  THE  POET'S  SHIFT,  The  Smart  Set,  May. 
Syrian,  Ajan,  ALMA  MATER;  "I  SING  OF  MY  LIFE  WHILE  I 

LIVE";    THE    IMMIGRANT   AT   COLUMBIA;    THE    SYRIAN 

LOVER  IN  EXILE  REMEMBERS  THEE,  Poetry:  A  Magazine 

of   Verse,  June. 

Tanner,  Eleanor,  THE  ROSE  WINDOW,  The  Catholic  World, 
June.  , 

Tatnall,  Francis  Dorr  Swift,  THE  STARS  BEFORE  THE  DAWN, 
Harper's,  June. 

Taylor,  Malcom,  DRINKING  SONG  (THE  ASTRONOMER  COMES 
HOME  DRUNK),  The  New  Republic,  May  8. 

Teasdale,  Sara,  APRIL  SONG,*  Reedy's  Mirror,  September 

217 


3;  BITTERNESS,*  The  Smart  Set,  May;  COME,*  The 
Smart  Set,  June;  DESEET  POOLS,*  Reedy's  Mirror,  Sep 
tember  3;  DOCTORS,*  The  Bellman,  August  28;  DUSK  IN 
JUNE,*  Reedy's  Mirror,  September  3;  FLORENCE,*  "I 
AM  NOT  YOURS,"*  Reedy's  Mirror,  August  27;  IM 
MORTAL,*  Reedy's  Mirror,  September  3;  IN  MEMORIAM: 
F.  O.  S.,*  Reedy's  Mirror,  August  27;  IN  THE  CAR 
PENTER'S  SHOP,*  Reedy's  Mirror,  September  3;  NAPLES,* 
Reedy's  Mirror,  August  27;  NEW  YEAR'S  DAWN,* 
Reedy's  Mirror,  September  3;  PEACE,*  The  Century 
Magazine,  May;  ROME,*  Reedy's  Mirror,  August  27; 
SAPPHO,  A.  1913;  SONG,*  STRESA,  THOUGHTS,*  Reedy's 
Mirror,  August  27;  THE  CLOUD,*  Harper's  Magazine, 
July,  THE  FOUNTAIN,*  Reedy's  Mirror,  August  27; 
THE  LIGHTED  WINDOW,  The  Century  Magazine,  June; 
THE  LOOK,  A.  1914;  THE  OLD  MAID,  A.  1913;  THE 
ROSE,  Scribner's  Magazine,  November,  1914;  THE  SEA 
WIND,*  The  Smart  Set,  February;  SPRING  IN  WAR-TIME, 
The  Bellman,  April  24;  SUMMER  NIGHT,  RIVERSIDE 
DRIVE,*  The  Century  Magazine,  September;  VILLA 
SERBELLONI,  BELLAGGIO,*  Reedy's  Mirror,  August  27; 
SWANS,*  The  Smart  Set,  June;  WHILE  I  MAY,*  Reedy's 
Mirror,  August  27. 

Thayer,  Stephen  Henry,  MASQUED,  The  Colonnade,  April. 

Thomas,  Edith  M.,  AUDIENCE,  The  Century  Magazine; 
January;  MIRROR-DANCE,  The  Century  Magazine,  June; 
THE  RED-CROSS  NURSE,  Harper's  Magazine,  March; 
THISTLEDOWN,*  Harper's  Magazine,  January. 

Thompson,  Ralph  M.,  THE  DAUGHTERS,  VETERANS,  Southern 
Woman's  Magazine,  June. 

Tinckom-Fernandez,  W.  G.,  THE  OLD  INN,*  The  Nation, 
December  3,  1914;  WAR  SILHOUETTES:  CAPTAIN  (AR 
TILLERY),*  COLONEL  (CAVALRY),*  FIELD-MARSHAL 
(GENERAL  STAFF),*  LIEUTENANT  (INFANTRY),*  The 
Bookman,  September. 

Tie t jens,  Eunice,  NARRATIVE,  PSALM  TO  MY  BELOVED,  The 
Texas  Review,  June;  THE  BACCHANTE  TO  HER  BABE,* 
Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  March;  THE  GREAT 
MAN,*  The  Century  Magazine,  June;  TRANSCONTI 
NENTAL,  Reedy's  Mirror,  July  9;  THREE  SPRING 
POEMS,  IN  IMITATION  OE  THE  JAPANESE,*  The  Texas 
Review,  June;  To  A  WEST  INDIAN  ALLIGATOR,*  The 
Little  Review,  June— July. 

Thome,  J.  H.,  LYRICS  OF  LOVE,  The  Smart  Set. 

218 


Towne,  Charles  Hanson,  ART,  The  Bookman,  September; 
AFTER  HEARING  TSCHAIKOWSKY,  The  Smart  Set,  De 
cember,  1914;  BEAUTY,*  The  Century  Magazine,  July; 
MYSTERIES,  Harper's  Magazine,  June;  ON  FIRST  LOOK 
ING  INTO  THE  MANUSCRIPT  OF  ENDYMION,*  Poetry:  A 
Magazine  of  Verse,  April;  RAIN  SONGS,  The  Smart 
Set,  October,  1914;  SILENCE,*  Harper's  Magazine, 
April;  THE  VICTORS,  North  American  Review,  April; 
To  MY  COUNTRY,*  Everybody's  Magazine,  WAITING,  A. 
1913. 

Trench,  Herbert,  NIGHT  ON  MONTE  ROSA,  ODE  FROM  ITALY 
IN  TIME  OF  WAR,  Boston  Transcript,  June  19. 

Trevelyan,  R.  C.,  WINTER  WEATHER,*  Reedy's  Mirror, 
January  29. 

Trimball,  W.   H.,  THE  VOICES,   The  Smart  Set,  March. 

True,  Ruth  S.,  A  MODERN  LULLABY,*  The  Century  Maga 
zine,  February. 

Turner,  Nancy  Byrd,  SISTER  MARY  VERONICA,*  Boston 
Transcript,  February  10. 

Turpin,  Georges,  THE  IRON  HIVE,  WAR,  Poet  Lore,  Winter 
Number,  1914. 

Twitchell,  Anna  Spencer,  THE   HANDS,   The  Forum,  June. 

Tynan,  Katharine,  THE  GREAT  MERCY,*  The  Catholic 
World,  May. 

Untermeyer,  Louis,  ALMOST,  The  Masses,  May;  HAVENS, 
The  Smart  Set,  July;  LANDSCAPES,  A.  1914;  ON  THE 
BIRTH  OF  A  CHILD,  A.  1913;  PORTRAIT  OF  A  CHOPIN- 
PLAYER  AND  His  AUDIENCE,*  The  Smart  Set,  Febru 
ary;  PORTRAIT  OF  AN  AMERICAN,  PORTRAIT  OF  A 
JEWELRY  DRUMMER,*  PORTRAIT  OF  A  SUPREME 
COURT  JUDGE,*  The  Masses,  August;  THE  LAUGH 
TERS,*  The  Masses,  June;  THE  OLD  DESERTER,* 
The  Masses,  November,  1914;  SWIMMERS,*  The  Yale 
Review,  July;  THE  DEAD  HORSE,*  The  Masses,  Au 
gust;  THE  ROBBER,  The  Smart  Set,  March;  THE  VIC 
TORY  OF  THE  BEAT-FIELDS,*  The  Century  Magazine, 
May;  THE  YOUTH  MORALIZES,  The  Smart  Set,  Oc 
tober,  1914;  THESE  TIMES,*  The  Forum,  May;  To  A 
GENTLEMAN  REFORMER,*  The  Masses,  August;  To  A 
WAR  POET,*  The  Masses,  January;  "WAKE,  GOD,  AND 
ARM,"*  The  Masses,  December,  1914. 

Untermeyer,  Richard,  As  TO  GOD,  As  TO  HEAVEN  ;  *  As  TO 
TRUTHS,*  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  July. 

219 


Underwood,  John  Curtis,  CAMP  FOLLOWERS;  COVENT  GAR 
DEN,  BISKRA,  The  Forum,  June;  FLEET  MANOEUVRES, 
The  Forum,  February;  HELEN,  LES  FORTS,*  The  Forum, 
June;  LA  GITANA,*  The  Forum,  June;  MILL  CHIL 
DREN;*  THE  ACCOUNTANT;  THE  CONSTRUCTION  GANG;* 
THE  OLD,  The  Forum,  June;  THE  OPEN  QUESTION, 
The  Forum,  February. 

Updegraff,  Allen,  THE  PRAOMATIST,  The  Century  Magazine, 
November,  1914. 

Vale,  Charles,  "K"  ("  SCHOLA  Novi  CASTELLI:  NUNQUAM 
NON  NOVA  "  * ;  To  RUPERT  BROOKE  ;  *  The  Forum, 
September;  TURNHURST,*  The  Forum,  August. 

Van  Dyke,  Henry,  THE  STANDARD-BEARER,  Scribner's  Maga 
zine,  December,  1914. 

Van  Dyke,  Tertius,  LOVE  OF  LIFE,  A.  1913. 

Van  Rensselaer,  Mrs.  Schuyler,  WITH  MALICE  TOWARD 
NONE,*  North  American  Review,  May. 

Van  Wyck,  William,  JESTER  TO  His  BUBBLE;  JUNIPERO 
SERRA;  SNIGGLE  FRITZ,  The  Graphic,  May  29;  SONG  OF 
THE  WAR  SPIRIT  IN  MAN'S  SOUL,  The  Los  Angeles 
Graphic,  May  8. 

Vernon,  Lue  F.,  AFTER  THE  STORM,  The  Los  Angeles 
Graphic,  February  27. 

Von  Liliencron,  Letlev  (trans,  by  Sasha  Best),  IN  A  LARGE 
CITY,  Poet  Lore,  New  Year's  Number,  1915;  THE 
MILL,  Poet  Lore,  Spring  Number,  1915. 

Waddell,  Elizabeth,  THE  DEAR  LITTLE  BULLET,  The  Masses, 
April;  THE  FIRST  GUN,  The  Masses,  September;  THEM 
AND  THEIR  WIVES,  The  Masses,  November,  1914;  TOP 
o'  THE  POT,*  The  Masses,  February. 

Wagstaff,  Blanche  Shoemaker,  I  KNOW  THAT  You  WHOM 
I  LOVE  TO-DAY,  THE  DANCERS,  The  Smart  Set,  July. 

Walker,  Laura  Marquard,  SUGGESTED  BY  A  BAS-RELIEF  OF 
VICTORY,  Poet  Lore,  Spring  Number,  1915. 

Walsh,  Thomas,  SISTER  GREGORIA,  To  A  BIRD  AT  SUNSET, 
SEVILLE,  1886,*  The  Catholic  World,  August;  SUNSET 
BALCONIES,*  Scribner's  Magazine,  December,  1914;  THE 
MAIDS  OF  HONOR,*  The  Bellman,  July  24;  To  FRAN 
CISCO  GOYA  IN  THE  GALLERY  OF  MADRID,*  The  Century 
Magazine,  May. 

Walter,  Elizabeth,  UNA  EX  HISCE  MORIERIS,  The  Colon 
nade,  April.  . 

220 


Wallace,  J.  H.,  DUST,  The  Century  Magazine,  October,  1914. 

Ware,  Gordon,  THE  LULLABY,  Southern  Woman's  Maga 
zine,  July. 

Warren,  Gretchen,  THE  PILGRIM'S  WAY;  THE  STORM,  Poet 
Lore,  Summer  Number,  1915. 

Wattles,  Willard,  LES  REVENANTS,  The  Smart  Set,  July. 

Webb,  Winifred,  To  A  DISCARDED  FAVORITE,  The  Smart  Set, 
October,  1914. 

Wells,  Stuart,  THE  SILENT  ARMY,  The  Bellman,  May  22. 

Wharton,  Edith,  BATTLE  SLEEP,*  The  Century  Magazine, 
September. 

Wharton,  James,  INVOCATION,  The  Smart  Set,  March. 

Wheelock,  John  Hall,  DEPARTURE,  A.  1913;  THE  DEAD 
DREAM,*  The  Smart  Set,  August. 

Whicher,  George  Meason,  "  I  HEARD  THE  NIGHTINGALE  IN 
TEMPE  SING,"*  The  Century  Magazine,  May;  THE 
HOME  OF  HORACE,*  Scribner's  Magazine,  February. 

Whitford,  R.  C.,  THE  VICTORY,  The  Smart  Set,  April. 

Widdemer,  Margaret,  A  LOST  FRIEND,  Poetry:  A  Magazine 
of  Verse,  February;  GOD  AND  THE  STRONG  ONES,*  The 
Masses,  November,  1914;  HIDDEN  LOVE,  Harper's 
Magazine,  June;  I  CAN  Go  LOVE  AGAIN,  The  Century 
Magazine,  November,  1914;  IF  You  SHOULD  TIRE  OF 
LOVING  ME,  The  Bellman,  November  7,  1914;  REMEM 
BRANCE:  GREEK  FOLK-SONG,  A.  1914;  SONG  OF  PIERROT,* 
Everybody's  Magazine,  October,  1914;  A  CYPRIAN 
WOMAN:  GREEK  FOLK  SONG,*  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of 
Verse,  February;  WAR-MARCH,  The  Masses,  August; 
WIND  LITANY,*  The  Craftsman,  September;  YOUTH,* 
The  Bellman,  April  3. 

Wier,  Clyde,  MUSICAL  MOOD,  The  Colonnade,  February. 

Wilkinson,  Marguerite,  OLD  GLORY,  The  Los  Angeles 
Graphic,  December  12,  1914;  SPRINGTIME  —  BY  AN  OUT 
SIDER,  The<  Bellman,  May  29;  SPRINGTIME  IN  A  SAN 
DIEGO  CANYON,  The  Los  Angeles  Graphic,  June  26; 
THE  OLD  HUNTER,  A  RUNE  OF  FOREVER  AND  EVER,  The 
Bellman,  April  17;  THE  OLD  MAID  AND  THE  VIOLET 
VENDOR,  The  Masses,  August. 

Wilson,  Charlotte,  EVENING,  A.  1914. 

Wilson,  Margaret  Adelaide,  DAN  MYERS,*  Century  Maga 
zine,  April. 

Wilson,  S.  K.,  THE  IRRELATIVE,  The  Bookman,  September. 

Williams,  William  Carlos,  A  CONFIDENCE,  Poetry:  A  Maga 
zine  of  Verse,  May;  APPEAL,  Others,  A  Magazine  of 

221 


the  New  Verse,  August;  METRIC  FIGURES,  Poetry:  A 
Magazine  of  Verse,  May;  PASTORAL,  Others,  A  Maga 
zine  of  the  New  Verse,  August;  SLOW  MOVEMENT,  SUB 
TERRA,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  May;  THE  OGRE, 
Others,  A  Magazine  of  the  New  Verse,  August;  THE 
SHADOW,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  df  Verse,  May. 

Woljeska,  Helen,  THE  WORSHIP  OF  SATAN,  The  Smart  Set, 
August. 

Wood,  Charles  Erskine  Scott,  VENUS  AND  MARS,  The 
Masses,  February. 

Wood,  C.,  A  BREATH  OP  LIFE,  The  Masses,  November, 
1914;  A  PRAYER,  The  Masses,  April;  SPRING,*  The 
Masses,  May;  THE  GOLDEN  MIRACLE,  The  Masses, 
April;  THE  STAR-BEES,  The  Masses,  September. 

Woodberry,  George  Edward,  PEACE,  North  American  Re 
view,  April;  SONNETS  WRITTEN  IN  THE  FALL  OF  1914,* 
IV.  Y.  Times  Magazine  Section,  September  19;  ST.  JOHN 
AND  THE  FAUN,  A.  1913. 

Woods,  William  Hervey,  THE  EXPLORER,  The  Century 
Magazine,  September. 

Woodruff,  Helen  Smith,  COTTON'S  GWINER  SELL,  Southern 
Woman's  Magazine,  January. 

Woodworth,  Edith  Ives,  MADRIGAL,  Scribner's  Magazine, 
June. 

Wright,  Cuthbert,  THE  NEW  PLATONIST,  CIRCA  1640,*  The 
New  Republic,  August  7. 

Wyatt,  Edith,  APRIL  WEATHER;  CLOVER;  ON  THE  GREAT 
PLATEAU;  SUMMER  HAIL,  To  F.  W.,  Poetry:  A  Maga 
zine  of  Verse,  January. 

Wyne,  Madeline  Yale,  COTTON  FIELDS,  Poetry:  A  Magazine 
of  Verse,  July. 

Young,  William,  THE  HUNTING,*  The  Yale  Review. 

Zamacois,  Miguel  (trans,  by  William  van  Wyck),  BALLAD 
OF  THE  BOY  WHO  WAS  SEVEN,  The  Los  Angeles 
Graphic,  June  26. 


222 


THE  BEST  POETRY  OF  1915 

Collected  Poems.  By  A.  E.  (The  Macmillan  Co.) 
"  Collected  here  from  '  Homeward  Songs  by  the  Way,'  '  The 
Earth  Breath,'  and  '  The  Divine  Vision '  with  new  verses  as 
I  thought  of  equal  mood,  this  book  holds  what  poetry  of 
mine  I  would  have  my  friends  to  read."  So  A.  E.  states 
in  his  preface.  His  friends  are  many,  all  the  many  who 
care  for  the  perfect  vision  illuminating  beautiful  form. 
"  I  have  omitted,"  says  the  poet  in  the  next  sentence,  "  what 
in  colder  hours  seemed  to  me  to  have  failed  to  preserve 
some  heat  of  the  imagination."  Some  heat  of  the  imagina 
tion!  Is  there  a  poem  in  the  volume  without  it!  The 
poems  preserve  a  great  deal  more.  For  A.  E.  is  a  prophet 
whose  soul  has  been  touched  with  the  fires  of  mystery.  He 
is  the  one  great  affirmative  note  in  the  Celtic  school;  Eva 
Gore-Booth  a  lesser  voice  than  his.  There  is  a  trinity  of 
ultimate  essences  in  A.  E.'s  poetry,  the  Soul,  Beauty,  and 
Mystery:  and  each  one  speaks  in  the  Pentecostal  flames 
of  Magic  and  Symbol:  "When  I  first  discovered,"  says  the 
poet,  "  for  myself  how  near  was  the  King  in  His  beauty  I 
thought  I  would  be  the  singer  of  the  happiest  songs.  For 
give  me,  Spirit  of  my  spirit,  for  this,  that  I  have  found  it 
easier  to  read  the  mystery  told  in  tears  and  understood 
Thee  better  in  sorrow  than  in  joy  that,  though  I  would  not, 
I  have  made  the  way  seem  thorny,  and  have  wandered  into 
too  many  byways,  imagining  myself  into  moods  which  held 
Thee  not."  Preoccupied  with  the  eternal,  voicing  the  in 
communicable,  evoking  the  unreachable,  this  poetry  of  A.  E.'s 
the  loveliest,  the  most  enduring,  the  most  transfiguring 
power  that  has  come  out  of  modern  Ireland. 

Selections  from  the  Symbolical  Poems  of  William,  Blake. 
By  Frederick  E.  Pierce,  Ph.D.  (Yale  University  Press.) 
Dr.  Pierce  has  performed  one  of  the  most  useful  poetic 
services  that  could  be  rendered,  by  editing  a  selection  from 
the  Prophetic  Books  and  symbolical  poems  of  William 
Blake,  giving  in  their  arrangements  and  elucidations  a 
clearer  notion  of  the  poet's  philosophy,  than  I  have  been  able 
to  find  in  more  pretentious  and  elaborate  studies.  As  every 
student  of  Blake  knows,  those  vague  and  inscrutable  works 
of  the  poet  known  as  the  "  prophetic  books  "  were  inspired 
by  the  mystical  philosophic  systems  of  Swedenborg  and 
Jacob  Boehme.  Though  many  of  these  works  were  de- 

223 


stroyed  by  Blake's  executor,  Tatham,  in  a  frenzy  of  reli 
gious  remorse,  there  still  exists  several  short  books  and  the 
three  long  symbolic  epics,  Vala,  Milton,  and  Jerusalem. 
To  quote  Dr.  Pierce,  "  Blake  emphasized  chiefly  two  ideas, 
both  essentially  reasonable  and  poetical.  The  first  is  that 
man  attains  his  highest  development,  becomes  the  ideal  man, 
only  when  the  different  forces  within  him  are  in  a  state  of 
harmony  and  balance.  The  tyranny  of  any  one  of  them  — 
intellect,  emotion,  sensuousness,  or  energy  —  over  the  others 
produces  a  distorted  soul  that  is  at  once  unphilosophical, 
unpoetical,  and  unchristian.  When  one  of  these  forces  is 
displaced  in  its  natural  field  of  action  by  another,  then  men 
love  coldly  through  their  heads  or  judge  blindly  through 
their  hearts,  so  that  we  have  fanatical  psychologists  experi 
menting  on  their  own  children  and  sentimental  juries  en 
dangering  society  by  their  rash  acquittals.  Our  own  age 
is  the  best  proof  of  Blake's  sanity  here."  This  is  an  essen 
tial  volume  for  every  one  to  add  to  their  collection  of 
Blake. 

Songs  of  Brittany.  By  Theodore  Botrel.  With  an  In 
troduction  by  A.  Le  Braz.  Translated  by  Emily  8.  Dick- 
erman.  (Richard  G.  Badger.)  These  folk-songs  and  bal 
lads  by  the  Breton  minstrel  ought  to  find  a  popular 
welcome  in  this  English  translation.  In  his  work,  says 
M.  Le  Braz,  "episodes  of  the  life  of  the  country  and  sea 
unroll  as  in  a  naive  fresco,"  it  is  a  "  real  study  of  customs 
in  a  gentre  setting,"  and  the  "  Breton  spirit "  is  here  ex 
pressed  in  every  phase  of  its  nature.  These  songs  are  folk 
poetry  of  the  purest  quality.  The  heart  of  Brittany  speaks 
through  them.  Botrel's  fame  has  only  lately  reached  this 
country  through  his  official  appointment  by  the  French 
Government  as  the  "  Laureate  of  the  Trenches."  He  goes 
about  improvising  his  songs  to  inspire  the  spirit  of  the  sol 
diers  about  to  go  into  action,  and  to  relieve  the  discomforts 
and  monotony  of  the  trenches. 

Songs  of  the  Workaday  World.  By  Berton  Braley. 
(George  H.  Doran  Co.)  Mr.  Braley's  workaday  world  is 
one  of  adventure  as  well  as  labor.  There  are  "  Songs  of 
the  Inland  Seas,"  "Songs  of  Deep  Water,"  "Western  Bal 
lads,"  "  Songs  of  the  Copper  Country,"  "  Songs  of  the  Long 
Trail,"  and  "  Songs  of  the  True  Romance."  He  sings  these 
songs  in  vigorous,  swinging  verse,  and  often  with  an  emo 
tional  dramatic  touch.  In  the  "  Songs  of  the  True  Ro 
mance,"  his  poetic  pitch  is  highest. 

224 


The  New  World.  By  Witter  Bynner.  (Mitchell  Ken- 
nerley.)  Some  four  years  ago,  when  Mr.  Bynner  read  a 
poem  before  the  Harvard  Chapter  of  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa 
Society,  he  took  the  theme  of  "  An  Immigrant."  What 
begins  at  Ellis  Island  is  only  one  phase  of  a  great  vision, 
and  unless  the  theme  develop3  into  the  very  substance  of 
our  national  life,  the  significance  of  the  vision  is  not  made 
wholly  effective  and  complete.  The  poetic  vision  of  Mr. 
Bynner  clearly  realized  this  and  the  poet  went  about  to 
expand  his  theme  into  the  results  of  "  The  New  World." 
He  gives  us  a  long  poem  whose  framework  is  democracy; 
but  he  brings  into  the  framework  many  elements.  One  is  a 
beautiful  tribute  to  a  woman  woven  in  so  subtly  that  the 
figure,  more  spirit  than  substance,  can  never  escape  the 
memory  of  the  reader.  Celia  embodies  in  her  spirit  the 
social  vision  of  the  poet.  In  her  aspirations  the  poet  sees 
those  hopes  which  make  up  his  doctrine  of  America.  To 
her  there  is  no  illusion  about  democracy;  the  elementary 
facts  are  in  her  simple  experiences;  and  her  intuition  per 
ceives  something  deeper  and  more  convincing  than  a  philo 
sophic  interpretation  of  the  doctrine.  The  most  vital  mes 
sage  in  this  poem  is  that  it  insists  that  democracy  possesses 
the  spirit  of  beauty.  In  the  vision  Mr.  Bynner  sees  the 
beauty  that  is  in  humanity  and  that  community  of  human 
beings  in  which  the  social  structure  is  flexible,  in  which  the 
aspiration  of  the  individual  is  not  checked  by  abstract  and 
obsolete  conventions.  And  this  will  create  beauty.  The 
concluding  section  of  the  poem  is  very  lovely,  because  the 
vision  of  democracy  is  all  gathered  up  in  that  personal  im 
age  of  the  woman.  It  is  just  this  image  that  democracy  has 
lacked.  "  The  New  World "  is  a  great  idealistic  poem. 
The  tone  is  full  of  delightful  subtleties  of  common  speech. 
The  skill  by  which  he  accomplishes  this  difficult  technique  is 
through  an  intimate  actuality  of  simple  words.  Through 
the  exaltation  of  feeling  the  words  by  sheer  utterance  be 
come  bright  and  appealing  tones  of  sense.  Democracy  and 
Beauty  have  been  evoked  in  one  vision  in  this  poem,  and 
this  more  than  anything  else  makes  it  unforgettable.  And 
if  Mr.  Bynner  means  that  Celia  should  symbolize  this 
union,  whatever  tribute  he  may  wreathe  round  a  reality  or 
a  memory,  there  will  always  stand  forth  the  beautiful  and 
glorious  embodiment  of  American  womanhood. 

K'Ung  Fu  Tze.  A  Dramatic  Poem.  By  Paul  Caru*. 
(The  Open  Court  Publishing  Co.)  Dr.  Carus  has  given  us 

225 


in  this  dramatic  poem  a  work  of  scholarly  significance. 
His  object  has  been  to  "work  out  for  the  English-speaking 
public  a  presentation  of  the  Chinese  religio-ethical  world- 
conception  in  the  dramatized  life  of  its  founder,  K'ung  Ni, 
commonly  called  K'ung  Fu  Tze,  who  has  moulded  the  his 
tory  of  China  and  is  still  the  main  factor  in  the  public  and 
private  life  of  his  native  country."  The  teachings  of  Con 
fucius  have  had  in  their  moral  aspects  an  influence  upon 
Western  thought,  and  their  interpretation  in  this  dramatic 
form  by  Dr.  Cams  will  recommend  his  work  to  many  read 
ers.  Apart  from  this  the  high  and  sustained  quality  of  the 
poet's  verse  gives  the  drama  an  important  place  among  the 
poems  of  the  day. 

Selections  from  Catullus.  Translated  by  Mary  Stewart. 
(Richard  G.  Badger.)  These  are  very  interesting  trans 
lations  from  Catullus,  rendered  from  the  three-point  view 
of  the  translator's  art  which  Miss  Stewart  sets  forth  in  her 
comprehensive  introduction  on  "  An  Experiment  in  Transla 
tion."  These  views  may  not  be  wholly  acceptable  to  many 
translators,  but  the  proof  of  her  theory  is  in  the  rendering 
of  the  Latin's  poet's  lyrics  themselves.  "  A  good  transla 
tion,"  she  says,  "  is  a  kind  of  condensed  and  concatenated 
annotation.  .  .  .  There  isn't  much  new  knowledge;  there's 
just  a  lot  of  fresh  thinking  about  old  subjects.  And  each 
generation  keeps  on  translating  the  thoughts  of  the  last 
into  its  own  vernacular.  Hence  arises  the  need  of  new 
translations  of  old  classics."  Her  versions  are  bright  with 
the  best  qualities  of  the  grace,  tenderness  and  passion  of  the 
Latin  poet. 

Poems.  By  Gilbert  K.  Chesterton.  (John  Lane  Co.)  A 
nature  so  hopelessly  tangled  in  debate  as  Mr.  Chesterton's 
cannot  wholly  in  verse  free  itself  from  debatable  ideas  and 
subjects.  That  is  why  this  volume  would  hardly  be  Ches- 
tertorian  without  a  group  of  "  Rhymes  for  the  Times." 
And  I  don't  know  but  what  they  hold  some  very  profound 
appeals  to  human  reason.  Some  of  them  are  satiric  to 
laceration.  He  loves  to  send  his  shafts  against  the  pride 
and  vanity  of  human  nature.  He  intends  to  open  a  wound 
in  the  flesh  of  these  vices,  but  as  soon  as  the  blood  starts 
he  is  quick  to  salve  it  with  humor.  The  best  of  his  poems 
in  this  manner  are  the  "  Antichrist,  or  the  Reunion  of 
Christendom:  An  Ode,"  "The  Revolutionist:  Or,  Lines  to  a 
Statesman,"  and  "  The  Shakespeare  Memorial."  In  this 
same  group,  however,  he  has  two  poems  in  which  truth, 

226 


more  sombrely  dressed,  stalks  not  in  personal  caricature, 
but  in  national  lineaments.  "  The  Song  of  the  Wheels," 
and  "  The  Secret  People  "  are  both  indictments  of  a  terrible 
kind  against,  in  the  first  instance,  the  injustices  of  capital 
in  the  exploitation  of  labor,  and  in  the  second  against  the 
non-assertion  of  the  English  lower  classes  of  their  rights 
and  freedom.  The  love-poems  of  Mr.  Chesterton  I  pass  by. 
They  will  hardly  be  recognised  as  love  poems.  I  have  to 
confess  that  the  poems  are  lovely,  but  the  love  isn't  poetic. 
Among  the  war  poems  there  is  a  fine,  reverberating  ballad 
"  Lepanto "  with  its  recurrent  and  drumming  image  of 
"  Don  Juan  of  Austria  is  going  to  the  war,"  and  the  well 
known  reference  to  the  present  European  war  in  the  "  Wife 
of  Flanders."  The  religious  poems  of  Mr.  Chesterton  are 
very  beautiful.  His  greatest  poetic  quality  of  the  satiric 
is  the  religious.  In  these  his  vision  is  very  clear  and  bril 
liant,  and  where  in  all  his  other  moods  his  faith  though 
torn  and  dusty  and  weary  can  never  be  doubted,  in  these 
alone  does  he  show  himself  capable  of  reverence.  The  Bal 
lades  which  conclude  the  volume  are  the  best  thing  of  the 
kind  since  Henley's  virile  paraphrases  of  Villon. 

Hillsboro  People.  By  Dorothy  Oanfield.  With  Occa 
sional  Verses  by  Sarah  N.  Cleghorn.  (Henry  Holt  &  Co.) 
In  this  volume  of  short  stories  by  Mrs.  Canfield  there  are 
eight  poems  by  a  woman  who  hides  her  poetic  light  under 
a  bushel.  Sarah  N.  Cleghorn  is  a  true  poet  with  a  love 
for  humanity  and  a  love  for  nature  that  is  rarely  excelled 
in  its  clarity  of  vision.  She  has  as  yet  published  no  volume 
and  the  few  poems  she  contributes  to  Mrs.  Canfield's  book 
is  the  only  collection  she  has  made.  A  number  of  years  ago 
she  published  a  wonderful  poem  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly 
which  would  have  had  an  honored  place  in  the  Anthology 
had  it  been  published  then.  It  ought  to  have  a  place  in 
every  anthology  of  American  verse  in  the  future. 

Vision  of  War.  By  Lincoln  Colcord.  (The  Macmillan 
Co.)  Here  is  a  poem  that  ought  to  have  a  million  readers. 
These  readers  ought  to  be,  beginning  with  the  President  of 
the  United  States  and  his  official  family,  every  legislator  in 
Congress  and  throughout  the  States,  great  financiers,  edu 
cators,  clergymen  of  every  denomination,  philanthropists 
and  peace  advocates,  professional  men,  especially  lawyers, 
all  persons  in  authority  over  wage-earners,  and  every  per 
son  who  believes  in  the  Golden  Rule  and  the  Brotherhood 
of  Man.  It  is  the  greatest  poem  this  war  or  any  war  in 

227 


modern  times  has  inspired.  And  not  because  it  deals  with 
this  war  concretely,  but  rather  this  war  reflects  the  faults 
of  civilization.  Mr.  Colcord  glorifies  his  vision  of  war  not 
because  he  believes  in  war  as  such,  but  because  he  sees  that 
strife  is  the  only  curative  for  the  ills  of  the  individual. 
When  those  ills  have  been  cured  permanently  there  will  be 
no  need  for  further  strife.  Peace  is  a  fosterer  of  human 
weakness  and  guilt,  of  selfishness  and  greed,  of  falsehood 
and  oppression,  of  hate  and  distrust.  When  peace  becomes 
as  magnanimous  as  war,  war  will  cease.  When  govern 
ments  will  vote  billions  of  credit  to  eliminate  poverty,  to 
cleanse  city  slums,  to  protect  the  helpless,  to  encourage  to 
spiritual  ideals,  to  provide  labor  for  the  workless,  and  to 
create  a  hundred  other  reforms  that  will  give  contentment 
and  opportunity  to  the  masses  of  mankind,  as  readily  as 
unhesitatingly  as  the  parliaments  of  Europe  voted  billions 
of  credit  to  destroy  life,  encroach  upon  national  boundaries, 
to  sanction  wholesale  murder,  to  infuriate  hatred  between 
men  innocent  of  any  personal  grievance  or  ill-will  against 
each  —  then  war  will  have  ceased.  We  have  in  this  poem  a 
great  vision  of  sick  humanity;  the  poet  diagnoses  all  the 
symptoms  of  the  patient,  but  instead  of  being  a  quack  phy 
sician  he  is  a  great  surgeon.  The  symptoms  are  selfishness, 
hate,  greed,  oppression,  lack  of  faith,  doubt  in  a  God,  lack 
of  brotherhood,  of  truth,  loyalty  and  devotion.  He  will 
not  soothe  the  pains  of  these  symptoms  with  the  drugs  of 
idealisms,  but  prepares  the  patient  for  the  knife  of  war. 
He  has  faith  that  the  patient  will  recover,  but  operates 
upon  the  defective  organism  and  nature  will  repair  the 
damage.  Life  will  sustain  the  cleansing  performance  of 
the  pain-inflicting  instrument.  Humanity  will  arise  puri 
fied  of  its  infections.  Paradoxical  as  it  may  seem,  Mr. 
Colcord  is  the  greatest  peace  advocate  of  the  modern  world. 
The  significance  of  his  poem  is  exactly  the  significance  of 
that  paradox  Christ  uttered  when  he  said  I  came  to  bring 
a  sword.  And  He  was  the  greatest  of  all  peace  advocates. 
So  much  for  the  exalted  message  in  Mr.  Colcord's  poem. 
It  is  equally  as  great  looked  at  in  another  aspect.  I  can 
not  even  hint  in  this  summary  at  its  marvelous  progression 
of  details.  Its  thorough  dissection  of  society,  its  aspira 
tions,  its  strong  denunciations  and  affirmative  ideals.  But 
this  I  can  say  without  equivocation  that  those  who  believe 
they  have  heard  the  voice  of  Walt  Whitman  since  his  death 
in  any  of  his  disciples,  with  the  one  possible  exception  of 

228 


Edward  Carpenter,  have  but  to  hear  the  voice  of  Lincoln 
Colcord  to  know  they  have  been  thoroughly  and  shamefully 
deceived.  For  here  is  the  authentic  Whitman  in  substance 
and  form,  in  the  passionate  idealization  of  a  world  democ 
racy.  He  fulfills  that  prophecy  of  Zarathusa's  who,  going 
up  into  the  mountains  for  meditation,  warned  his  disciples 
that  one  shall  come  after  him  greater  than  he  to  carry  out 
his  message.  He  possesses  what  was  the  most  vital  short 
coming  in  the  genius  of  Whitman  (yes,  I  grant  that  noble 
seer  genius  because  of  his  prophetical  vision!)  and  that  is 
an  intellectualized  imagination.  This  not  only  makes  his 
vision  a  flame  but  a  Pentecostal  tongue  of  fire.  The  exal 
tation  which  burns  throughout  the  poem  is  only  exceeded 
by  one  sublime  fact  —  its  dedication,  which  reads  "  To  the 
Memory  of  a  MAN,"  and  I  am  persuaded  that  the  man 
with  the  most  worthy  memory  to  receive  it  is  Jesus  of 
Nazareth ! 

Afternoons  of  April.  A  Book  of  Verse.  By  Grace 
Hazard  Conkling.  (Houghton  Mifflin  Co.)  Mrs.  Conkling 
has  long  charmed  the  public  with  her  verses  in  the  maga 
zines,  and  this  public  will  now  welcome  this  first  volume. 
She  has  an  imaginative  quality  that  is  rare,  but  which  to 
the  glory  of  contemporary'  American  verse  she  shares  with 
a  few  other  American  women  poets.  All  of  these  poets 
exercise  it  upon  nature,  each  abstracting  her  own  particular 
message  and  solace.  In  other  respects  their  interests  varies, 
and  in  Mrs.  Conkling's  case  it  turns  upon  moods  that  are 
like  the  spoils  of  Poynton.  Apart  from  her  love  of  nature, 
in  which  the  note  is  mostly  fantastic  and  wizardry,  she  ad 
dresses  her  dreams  in  the  symbol  of  music,  touches  upon 
the  kindred  spirit  of  literature,  gives  delightful  remi 
niscences  of  places,  and  writes  those  exquisite  poems  to  her 
children  in  which  the  mother-heart  plays  a  charming  duet 
with  the  gift  with  a  child's  wonder  book  of  stories.  Most 
appropriately  named  the  volume  is  full  of  those  subtle  and 
delicate  fabrics  of  sunshine  and  dream  which  glorifies  an 
April  landscape. 

Crack  o'  Dawn.  By  Fannie  Stearns  Davis  (Mrs.  A.  McK. 
Gifford).  (The  Macmillan  Co.)  The  second  volume  of 
verse  by  Fannie  Stearns  Davis  (who  is  now  Mrs.  Gifford) 
is  unmistakably  of  the  emotional  quality  that  made  "  Myself 
and  I  "  so  expressive  of  moods  in  which  a  kind  of  mystical 
grace  withdrew  the  veil  from  the  natural  secrets  of  life. 
It  was  a  note,  however,  which  if  insisted  upon  would  lose 

229 


much  of  its  appealing  freshness,  and  this  is  what  seems  to 
have  happened  in  her  second  collection.  The  absolute  sim 
plicity  of  expression  that  accompanies  this  substance  of  a 
mood  repeated  with  faultless  perfection  creates  a  monotony 
in  which  the  subtlety  of  image  vanishes  in  a  flat  emotional 
ism.  The  substance  of  these  poems  are  the  evocations  of 
a  mood  which  is  at  core  a  very  plain  and  natural  belief  in 
the  spiritual  mystery  of  things.  What  we  feel  is  that  Mrs. 
Gifford's  muse  might  go  rough-shod  a  little.  It  is  concen 
trated  a  little  too  intensely  upon  invisible  meanings;  it  is 
not  hearty  enough;  her  world  of  secrets  are  rather  personal 
than  contributory.  With  such  a  vision  as  hers  and  abundant 
melody  we  expect  the  best  of  her  work  to  come. 

Irradiations:  Sand  and  Spray.  By  John  Gould  Fletcher. 
(Houghton  Mifflin  Co.)  I  have  contended  that  the  claims 
of  the '  Imagists  are  made  good  by  achieving  a  quality  of 
magic  in  their  verse,  quantity  for  quantity  of  production, 
more  often  than  the  many  poets  who  refute  them.  If  this 
is  so,  and  I  hold  that  it  is,  the  question  of  subject  and  treat 
ment  has  no  place  in  the  discussion  which  would  deny  them 
serious  and  appreciative  acceptance.  In  Mr.  Fletcher  we 
have  a  poet  of  distinctive  achievement  in  this  respect.  His 
volume  is  full  of  subtleties  of  moods  and  images.  He  has 
the  kind  of  imagination  whose  essence  is  a  poignancy  of 
mood;  it  is  the  kind  that  is  not  always  compatible  with  the 
subject  that  engages  his  attention.  When  it  is,  however,  it 
shows  him  possessed  of  a  quality  of  genius  that  is  very  beau 
tiful  and  moving.  But  no  poet  yet  has  shown  this  power  of 
poetic  expression  without  also  proving  the  capability  of  do 
ing  himself  injustice.  The  work  of  such  a  poet  is  certain  to 
be  uneven  unless  he  exercises  rigorous  selection,  and  this  is 
the  chief  fault  to  be  charged  against  Mr.  Fletcher.  Ad 
hering  to  all  the  essential  qualities  which  imagism  implies, 
the  cadence  of  these  poems  go  to  the  eye  as  well  as  the  ear. 
Where  it  is  necessary  to  emphasize  the  effect  he  does  not 
hesitate  to  employ  both  rhyme  and  the  more  accentual  cur 
rent  of  metre.  His  emotional  force  has  always  its  impe 
tus  in  the  complexities  of  human  life.  Unconsciously,  his 
imagination  caressing  the  picturesque  forms  and  objects  of 
the  natural  world,  he  often  soars  out  of  reach  of  these  con 
fusing  and  inexplicable  influences,  but  he  is  found  drifting 
back  to  them  with  a  sudden  turn  of  feeling.  The  proof  of 
both  imagination  and  vision  in  a  poet  does  not  lie  in  his 
effort  to  encompass  range  in  the  visible  world,  but  to  en- 

230 


large  the  familiar  and  minute,  and  to  give  scope  through 
the  image  for  the  senses  to  range.  These  "  Irradiations " 
are  compactly  imaginative  in  this.  Sometimes,  as  the  poet 
declares,  "  My  desire  goes  bristling  and  growling  like  an 
angry  leopard,"  or  in  following  another  mooa,  he  will 
"  brush  the  blue  dust  of  my  dreams,"  but  always  with 
strange  haunting  cadences,  and  phrases  new-garmented  with 
vigor  and  meaning.  So  what  is  best  in  Mr.  Fletcher's  po 
etry  haunts,  and  no  poetry  can  haunt  without  magical  sub 
stance,  and  any  poetry  that  has  magical  substance  in  any 
degree  makes  good  its  intention  in  the  art,  and  this  stands 
true  whatever  the  principles  and  methods  by  which  it  is 
created.  It  is  only  in  this  way  that  a  new  movement  in  art 
survives. 

North  of  Boston.  A  Boy's  Will.  By  Robert  Frost. 
(Henry  Holt  &  Co.)  With  Mr.  Masters  Robert  Frost  has 
contributed  the  most  valuable  additions  to  American  poetry 
of  the  year.  Both  have  absolute  genius,  though  I  think 
Mr.  Frost's  art  has  considerably  greater  possibilities  for 
enlargements  upon  the  material  he  works  in.  These  two 
volumes  published  together  early  in  the  year  won  immedi 
ate  recognition  and  praise  for  their  unusual  subjects  and 
the  fresh  and  original  treatment  of  them.  The  earlier  book, 
"  A  Boy's  Will,"  expresses  an  individuality,  the  later  "  North 
of  Boston,"  interprets  a  community.  Completely  as  a  "  A 
Boy's  Will "  performs  its  nature  in  the  lyrical  demonstra 
tion  of  an  individual  who  attempts  to  account  for  himself 
and  his  emotional  experiences  in  a  social  scheme,  its  greatest 
spiritual  and  human  value  is  a  preparation  for  the  more 
wonderful  analysis  of  the  objective  experiences  of  rural 
life  which  the  poet  limns  in  "  North  of  Boston."  The  blank 
verse  poems,  with  nearly  always  a  story  of  New  England 
farm  life,  in  "  North  of  Boston,"  is  clearly  against  the 
tradition  of  this  form.  In  the  first  place  it  is  not  literary. 
That  is,  the  language  of  these  poems  is  not  the  language  of 
literature,  but  the  speech  of  life,  a  very  particular  quality 
of  life  and  its  special  influences.  The  beauty  and  vitality  of 
Mr.  Frost's  accomplishment  in  molding  this  veracious  ut 
terance  of  his  characters  into  a  significant  and  original  form 
of  verse,  is  that  the  meaning  has  the  same  absolute  actu 
ality  and  intimacy  with  life  as  the  tones  of  words  have  with 
the  voice.  The  result  of  this  thoroughly  sincere  and  artis 
tic  effort  to  enhance  a  more  closely  knit  idiomatic  speech 
in  art,  by  giving  heat  and  force  to  the  substance  I  should 

231 


say,  will  at  first  be  a  little  puzzling  to  the  reader  until  he 
has  caught  the  perfect  rhythm  of  its  undermeaning.  To 
appreciate  these  remarkable  poems  fully,  one  has  got  to  re 
gard  carefully  the  two  backgrounds  from  which  they  are 
projected.  There  is  the  background  of  his  material,  the 
environment  and  character  which  belongs  to  a  special  com 
munity;  and  there  is  the  background  of  art  in  which  the 
fidelity  of  human  speech  peculiar  to  the  community  is  ar 
tistically  brought  into  literature.  This  speech  is  the  prin 
ciple  of  "  sound-posturing,"  or  more  literally  getting  the 
sound  of  sense.  And  with  this  principle,  which  has  a  vital 
share  in  the  magic  of  all  the  great  English  poets,  notably  in 
Shakespeare,  Wordsworth,  and  Browning,  Mr.  Frost  is  the 
first  of  contemporary  poets  whether  English  or  American, 
to  deliberately  and  sedulously  make  it  a  cardinal  virtue  of 
his  art.  These  blank  verse  narratives  of  New  England  farm 
life  have  not  only  the  atmosphere  but  the  features  of  coun 
tryside  New  England;  the  landscape,  with  its  woods,  rocks, 
meadows  and  hills,  rain  and  clouds  and  sunlight,  familiarly 
known  and  passionately  loved  by  the  poet,  are  so  woven 
through  this  vigorous  actuality  of  speech  and  meaning  as  to 
present  vivid  and  picturesque  moods  full  of  mystery  and 
beauty.  For  all  his  hard,  tragic  pictures  of  human  life  in 
these  narratives,  Mr.  Frost  is  an  idyllist.  The  very  spirit 
of  Theocritus,  for  the  first  time  through  him,  pervades  the 
New  England  farms  and  meadows.  The  atmosphere  of  the 
bucolic  life,  with  all  the  poignant  essences  he  abstracts 
from  the  meagre  experiences  of  his  people,  has  never  been 
so  delicately  transported  into  literature  by  an  American 
poet  before.  In  spite  of  all  the  other  qualities  which  make 
Mr.  Frost's  poems  remarkable,  it  is  this  natural  delicacy  of 
vision  which  gives  a  tone  to  the  atmosphere  and  which  en 
velops  the  inner  meaning  of  his  subjects. 

The  Book  of  Irish  Poetry.  Edited  with  an  Introduction 
by  Alfred  Perceval  Graves.  (New  York:  Frederick  A. 
Stokes  Co.)  Dr.  Graves  has  given  us  an  exceedingly  com 
plete  anthology  of  modern  Irish  poetry  which  does  not 
suffer  at  all  by  comparison  with  those  of  Cooke,  Gregory, 
and  Miss  Hull.  It  devotes  even  more  attention  than  its 
predecessors  to  contemporary  work,  and  is  possibly  the 
richest  gathering  yet  made  of  poems  made  by  the  members 
of  the  young  Anglo-Irish  school. 

The  Laughing  Muse.  By  Arthur  Ouiterman.  (Harper 
and  Brothers.)  We  have  long  looked  for  a  volume  of  Mr. 

232 


Guiterman's  verse  and  now  that  he  has  given  us  one  at  last 
it  is  sure  to  have  a  wide  welcome.  "  The  Laughing  Muse  " 
is  aptly  named  to  characterize  these  poems  that  deal  with 
the  lighter  side  of  human  interests  and  affairs.  The  essence 
of  good  taste  is  in  the  fun  Mr.  Guiterman  gets  out,  instead 
of  poking  at,  the  foibles  and  weaknesses  of  human  nature. 
His  poetic  forms  are  so  perfect,  his  moods  so  sparklingly 
fresh,  that  he  gives  more  than  a  temporary  quality  to  the 
humor  of  his  situations.  He  re-incarnates  the  best  spirit  of 
Frederick  Locker-Lampson,  because  unlike  most  American 
poetic  humorists  there  is  a  subtle  refinement  in  his  laugh 
ter  which  modulates  very  often  into  a  pensive  note.  An 
other  quality  he  has  which  brings  his  art  into  a  higher  key 
than  it  would  pretend  to  belong,  is  the  appealing  tender 
ness  of  his  moods.  He  has  written  exquisitely  on  many  a 
trifle,  little  haunting  snatches  of  song  that  go  straight  to 
the  heart.  The  good  generous  measure  of  his  gladdening 
muse  puts  all  poetry  lovers  under  the  obligation  of  justi 
fying  his  gift. 

Satires  of  Circumstances.  Lyrics  and  Reveries.  With 
Miscellaneous  Pieces.  By  Thomas  Hardy.  (The  Macmil- 
lan  Co.)  Though  Mr.  Thomas  Hardy  has  forsaken  the 
novel,  to  the  deep  regret  of  his  admirers,  he  gives  us  poems 
with  much  of  the  same  substance  of  life  and  destiny  which 
made  the  characters  in  his  fiction  both  so  pitiful  and  so 
true  to  nature  and  circumstance.  It  is  out  of  an  ironic 
substance  that  he  hews  his  poems ;  they  are  hewn  rather  than 
modelled,  because  every  image  is  like  a  vigorous  and  unsus 
pected  stroke  of  fate.  Even  working  in  the  medium  of 
verse  he  seldom  fails  to  be  the  story-teller;  each  poem  car 
ried  a  climax  that  is  neither  in  the  mood  or  emotion  of  the 
poet,  but  has  its  beginning  in  some  keen  differentiations  and 
contrasts  in  the  background  of  fate,  and  after  preparations 
in  character,  environment,  influences,  he  draws  the  curtain 
for  the  reader  to  glimpse  the  final  act  of  passion  and  char 
acter.  There  is  no  inspiration  in  the  conception  of  these 
poems;  it  is  clear,  coldeyed  perception  of  life.  Hardy's 
great  power  in  his  verse  is  his  ability  to  visualize  some  ter 
rible,  some  pathetic,  some  melancholy  indictment  of  fate 
upon  human  nature;  the  visualization  is  not  an  imaginative 
heat  shaping  the  elements  of  experience;  the  character,  the 
event,  the  passion,  the  circumstance  comes  to  him  with  a 
high  temperature  and  some  powerful  process  of  his  mind 
hardens  the  effect  into  definite  images  whose  substance 

233 


might  be  bronze  or  marble.  Perhaps  no  man  had  more  to 
overcome  in  his  own  nature  in  the  attempt  to  write  poetry 
than  this  great  novelist;  rather  than  subdue  his  spirit  to  the 
inexplicable  guardianship  of  the  muse,  he  wrestles  stub 
bornly  with  its  unseen  force,  forcing  it  to  a  compromise 
upon  his  own  terms.  Now,  it  seems  almost  glad  to  do  his 
bidding,  and  no  one  who  reads  these  extraordinary  verses 
but  will  recognize  a  kind  of  triumph  in  their  expressions. 
While  at  times  they  awe,  they  also  fascinate  the  reader; 
by  the  boldness  of  what  Mr.  Hardy  chooses  to  present  as  a 
poetic  subject,  by  the  indifference  he  manifests  to  every 
law  in  the  verse  except  the  law  of  life,  he  makes  destiny  a 
series  of  casual  incidents  which  are  scattered,  by  the  unseen 
gods  into  the  souls  of  chance  passersby  as  they  toil  through 
the  morass  of  existence. 

Molly  Pryce.  A  Quaker  Idyll.  By  John  Russell  Hayes. 
(The  Biddle  Press.)  Mr.  Hayes  is  the  Quaker  laureate  of 
to-day.  He  does  not  pretend  to  have  the  passion  of  Whit- 
tier,  nothing  of  his  strong  indignation;  but  he  has  what 
Whittier  never  consistently  possessed,  a  fine  artistic  equip 
ment,  and  loves  beauty  with  a  serene  reverence,  finds  and 
expresses  it  in  humble  rural  experiences  and  landscapes. 
Here  is  a  pastoral  poet  with  a  mood  for  nature 
that  is  exquisitely  expressed  as  the  Quaker  faith  of 
his  with  its  quiet  and  glowing  conscience.  His  latest 
Quaker  idyll,  Molly  Pryce,  is  full  of  the  rich  sim 
plicity  and  tranquil  rhythm  for  which  his  art  is  notable. 
It  is  a  simple  narrative  about  this  gentle  Quaker  girl  going 
down  to  Philadelphia,  from  Bucks  County,  for  the  Quakers' 
Yearly  Meeting,  with  her  widower  father,  and  there  meet 
ing  Roger  Morland,  they  fall  in  love.  The  description  of  the 
meeting,  of  the  friendly  and  affectionate  relations  of  the 
members,  of  the  lightly  sketched-in  environs  of  the  city, 
make  a  charming  composition  in  light  tones  and  silver  col 
ors.  In  the  poem  is  the  art  of  artlessness,  the  treatment 
of  simple  human  facts,  no  straining,  no  shouting,  no  deep 
probing  of  human  mysteries,  and  yet  all  so  real  that  beauty, 
like  the  afterglow  of  a  perfect  summer  day,  veils  the  facts 
of  homespun  experience. 

Creation.  Post-Impressionist  Poems.  By  Horace  Hoi- 
ley.  (Mitchell  Kennerley.)  These  poems  are  what  Mr. 
Holley  characterizes  them  in  the  sub-title.  If  they  lack  a 
certain  emotional  grace  they  possess  subtleties  of  moods 
which  show  a  mental  exquisiteness.  The  spirit  here  is  a 

234 


strange  mixture  of  perceptions.  Take  the  literal  expres 
sion  of  these  poems  and  they  seem  to  give  the  exotic  moods 
of  a  dreamer,  but  they  present  something  quite  different  in 
experience.  They  are  poems  of  ideas  rather  than  emotions, 
and  they  are  ideas  which  project  life  instead  of  flowing 
from  it.  The  verse  contains  none  of  the  ordinary  elements 
which  charm,  but  presents,  as  in  a  crystal,  images  of  thought 
that  is  more  radiance  than  substance,  reflections  rather  than 
objects. 

Poems.  By  Brian  Hooker.  (Yale  University  Press.) 
Mr.  Hooker  is  a  modern  romantic  poet,  and  it  makes  very 
little  difference  whether  he  sings  of  age-old  things  and  fig 
ures,  as  in  "  Morven  and  the  Grail,"  or  as  in  the  narrative 
of  "The  White  Cat:  A  Fairy  Poem,"  his  heart  and  sympa 
thies  are  in  the  nowadays  of  human  motives.  His  imagi 
nation  is  incisive,  but  quiet,  taking  on  frequently  a  glow 
full  of  dim  figures,  like  a  gorgeous  tapestry  seen  in  the 
twilight.  His  songs  are,  I  think,  the  least  successful  of  the 
groups  of  verse  in  which  his  poems  are  divided;  they  are 
artistic,  cameo-like  in  their  proportions,  but  they  lack  an 
instinctive  something,  of  mood  or  feeling,  which  fails  to 
make  them  wing  rapturously  along  the  emotions.  What  I 
have  noticed  particularly  about  Mr.  Hooker's  art  is  the 
cool,  fragrant,  hushed  movement  of  his  words.  His  poems 
are  foliaged  with  words  like  a  tree  with  leaves,  always  in 
motion,  and  flashing  with  the  freshness  of  a  summer  shower 
in  their  faces.  His  sonnets  are  extraordinarily  graceful  in 
feeling  and  very  firmly  textured.  The  series  called  "  Idola 
try  "  are  very  perfect  and  beautiful.  Mr.  Hooker  has  in 
vented  a  new  fixed  form  which  seems  to  me  to  have  great 
possibilities.  He  calls  them  "  Turns."  English  poetry  has 
contributed  no  fixed  forms  to  the  art  that  has  been  uni 
versally  practiced,  and  it  would  be  a  great  credit  to  Ameri 
can  literature  if  the  first  should  be  contributed  by  this 
American  poet. 

Collected  Poems.  By  Newman  Howard.  (The  Macmil- 
lan  Co.)  Newman  Howard  is  a  poet  who  is  practically  un 
known  in  this  country,  and  yet  he  has  the  distinction  of 
having  written  one  of  the  very  finest  poetic  dramas  of  the 
last  twenty  years.  His  work  has  not  been  hitherto  easily 
accessible  in  this  country,  but  with  this  collected  edition  he 
ought  to  gain  a  wide  and  appreciative  American  audience. 
The  volume,  carefully  selected  by  the  poet  himself,  con 
tains  the  best  of  his  dramatic  and  lyrical  verse.  The 

235 


dramas  include  "  Kiartan  the  Icelander,"  "Savonarola:  A 
City's  Tragedy,"  "  Constantine  the  Great,"  and  "The 
Guanches :  An  Idyll " ;  with  the  collected  lyrics  the  poet  has 
here  included  the  contents  of  his  previous  volume,  the  "  Foot 
steps  of  Proserpine,"  which  was  hailed  as  a  work  of  genius 
in  1897.  "  Kiartan  the  Icelander "  is  undoubtedly  the 
poet's  masterpiece,  and  no  finer  performance  has  been  ac 
complished  of  late  in  the  English  poetic  drama.  In  the 
dramas  especially  the  poet  shows  a  great  gift  of  style,  and 
in  his  substance  almost  every  gamut  of  human  passion  is 
touched.  Mr.  Howard  deserves  an  American  audience. 

Prayer  for  Peace  and  Other  Poems.  By  William  Samuel 
Johnson.  (Mitchell  Kennerley.)  War  poems,  poems  on 
Life  and  Art  and  Paris  Days,  with  a  group  of  sonnets  and 
ballades,  Mr.  Johnson  gives  us  here  a  volume  of  distinction 
and  force.  His  touch  is  always  sure  and  sometimes  mas 
terly,  playing  upon  the  subtle  stops  of  life  with  a  wizardry 
that  no  mood  or  vision  can  fail  to  respond  to.  His  imag 
ination  has  a  faculty  of  imbuing  the  austerities  of  life  with 
the  same  persuasive  force  that  it  has  in  enveloping  the 
themes  that  are  essentially  decorative  and  gay.  In  him  we 
have  a  poet  who  thinks  profoundly  and  dreams  glamor- 
ously,  and  who  gives  to  the  substance  of  each  perfect  em 
bodiments. 

The  Voice  in  the  Silence.  By  Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr. 
(The  Mosher  Press.)  Three  editions  of  these  exquisite 
poems  have  been  demanded,  and  this  latest  has  the  im 
primatur  of  Mr.  Mosher's  press  which  is  a  guarantee  of 
beauty  being  beautifully  clothed.  To  perfect  the  atmos 
phere  of  the  volume  there  is  an  introduction  by  James 
Lane  Allen  paying  the  tribute  of  "This  poet's  song:  native 
to  the  woods  from  which  it  never  wanders;  intent  upon  a 
theme  which  it  never  relinquishes  —  the  forest  and  the  pil 
grims.  And  thus  while  his  pipe  has  no  rift  in  it,  his  song 
has  one  —  the  never  to  be  mended  rift  between  nature  and 
humanity."  What  I  wrote  six  years  ago  about  Mr.  Jones' 
art  in  general  I  am  glad  to  reaffirm  now  in  recommending 
this  volume  to  new  readers:  "The  imagery  of  these  lyrics 
is  always  shaped  so  finely  to  the  emotion.  The  mood  may 
spring  from  a  remote  glimmering  of  beauty,  or  from  some 
undecipherable  signature  of  dream,  but  it  comes  to  the 
reader  as  the  essence  of  a  spiritual  experience  which  quick 
ens  the  pulse  to  realization. 

Songs   of  Kabir.    Translated   by   Rabindranath    Tagore. 

236 


With  the  Assistance  of  Evelyn  Underhill.  (The  Macmil- 
lan  Co.)  Kabir,  who  lived  in  the  latter  half  of  the  fif 
teenth  century,  is  one  of  the  greatest  of  Indian  poets.  He 
is  one  of  the  few  great  mystics  who  is  also  a  great  creative 
artist,  akin  very  much  in  his  strangely  Christian  vision, 
which  caused  him  to  be  regarded  by  his  contemporaries  as 
a  dangerous  heretic,  to  the  imaginative  fervor  of  St.  Teresa 
and  St.  John  of  the  Cross.  As  Miss  Underhill  points  out 
in  her  sympathetic  and  illuminating  introduction,  "in  his 
wide  and  rapturous  vision  of  the  universe  Kabir  never 
loses  touch  with  diurnal  existence,  never  forgets  the  com 
mon  life.  His  feet  are  firmly  planted  upon  Earth;  his 
lofty  and  passionate  apprehensions  are  perpetually  con 
trolled  by  the  activity  of  a  sane  and  vigorous  intellect,  by 
the  alert  common-sense  so  often  found  in  persons  of  real 
mystical  genius." 

The  English  Poems  of  Henry  King,  D.D.,  1592-1669. 
Sometime  Bishop  of  Chichester.  Now  First  Collected  from 
Various  Sources  and  Edited  by  Lawrence  Mason,  Ph.D. 
(The  Yale  University  Press.)  Henry  King  has  been 
chiefly  known  to  modern  readers  through  the  anthologies 
of  seventeenth  century  verse.  Three  of  his  poems  I  in 
cluded  in  "  The  Book  of  Elizabethan  Verse,"  among  which 
was  the  famous  Exequy  on  His  Wife,  one  of  the  tenderest 
elegies  of  the  period.  The  present  edition  presents  a  com 
plete  collection  of  Bishop  King's  English  poems.  The 
original  edition  appeared  in  a  small  octavo  in  1657,  and 
the  unsold  copies  were  re-issued  with  new  title  pages  in 
1664  and  1700.  The  next  issue  to  appear  was  the  elabo 
rately  annotated  edition  of  Dr.  Hannah's  printed  in  1843. 
The  present  edition  includes  the  "  twenty-nine  poems 
omitted  by  Hannah  as  well  as  the  fifty  selected  by  him, 
and  in  addition  another  considerable  elegy  that  has  not 
been  reprinted  since  1649;  while  four  of  King's  hitherto 
uncollected  poems  or  parts  of  poems  are  here  for  the  first 
time  printed,  from  various  MSS.,  together  with  five  other 
pieces  whereof  his  authorship  cannot  be  so  definitely 
proved,  but  of  which  four  are  almost  certainly  his  work." 
While  no  extravagant  claims  can  be  made  for  King's 
poetry,  Mr.  Mason  says,  nevertheless,  "  some  single  poems 
or  detached  passages  will  always  arouse  admiration  and 
give  pleasure,  while  the  literary  tendencies  illustrated  by 
his  work  invest  his  poetry  with  an  importance  and  interest 
that  cannot  be  denied  and  should  no  longer  be  ignored." 

237 


The  Bishop's  poems  deserve  a  place  on  the  shelf  with  those 
other  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  century  minor  poets  whom 
Hannah,  Grosart,  Bullen,  and  Professor  Saintsbury  have 
rescued  from  oblivion. 

Sonnets  to  Sidney  Lanier  and  Other  Lyrics.  By  Clifford 
Anderson  Lanier.  Edited,  with  an  Introduction,  by  Ed 
ward  Howard  Origgs.  (B.  W.  Huebsch.)  These  sonnets 
show  the  beautiful  affection  of  one  brother  for  another, 
and  though  they  have  a  certain  fine  merit  of  their  own 
they  interest  us  chiefly  because  of  the  famous  and  beloved 
poet  to  whom  they  were  addressed.  The  lyrics  which  are 
included  in  addition,  and  selected  from  a  little  volume  pri 
vately  printed  in  1902,  called  "  Apollo  and  Keats,"  are 
much  finer  poetry,  and  express,  as  Mr.  Griggs  reminds  us, 
of  "one  of  nature's  gentlemen,  generous,  gifted,  fine  and 
true." 

Red  Wine  of  Roussillon.  A  Play  in  Four  Acts.  By 
William  Lindsey.  (Houghton  Mifflin  Co.)  Mr.  Lindsey,  in 
his  poetic  play  "  Red  Wine  of  Roussillon,"  has  caught  the 
spirit  of  mediaeval  France  and  woven  scenes  out  of  its 
life  upon  a  tapestry  of  blank  verse.  There  was  hardly 
any  need  that  he  should  invent  an  original  plot;  there 
was  every  need  that  he  should  make  his  characters 
vivid  and  mobile.  There  was  hardly  any  need  that 
he  should  elaborate  the  intricacies  of  his  story,  but  it 
was  essential  that  he  should  touch  the  vital  situations 
with  a  passionate  interest,  and  this  he  could  not  do 
without  embodying  his  chief  characters  with  the  inten 
sities  of  life.  The  plot  is  an  old  one;  one  which  Raimon, 
the  Lord  of  Roussillon,  remarks  to  Berguedan  the  trouba 
dour,  who  gives  a  version  of  it  in  his  song,  with  the  "  same 
old  characters;  we  know  them  well,"  and  has  a  lady,  lover, 
and  her  jealous  lord.  But  the  poet  here  gives  the  old  plot 
a  new  distinction  by  his  treatment  of  it.  The  blank  verse 
is  flexible,  and  rises  to  eloquence  in  the  impassioned  mo 
ments.  It  is,  indeed,  very  well  done,  and  proves  that  the 
medium  has  not  yet  passed  out  of  fashion  or  practice. 

The  House  That  Was  and  Other  Poems.  By  Benjamin 
R.  C.  Low.  (John  Lane  Co.)  There  is  a  radiance  in  Mr. 
Low's  art  which  flows  from  the  source  of  intellectual 
beauty.  In  the  long  titular  poem  there  is  as  fine  a  piece 
of  symbolism  as  we  have  had  in  recent  American  verse; 
but  it  is  not  a  dark  weaving,  it  is  subtly  bright  like  a 
flood  of  sunshine  with  its  innumerable  motes.  Those  motes 

238 


are  imaginatively  dancing  in  gayety  all  about  the  invisible 
mystery  of  death.  The  poet  soliloquises  upon  a  skull  and 
constructs  in  his  reflections  a  marvellous  symbol  of  human 
life  and  destiny.  The  beauty  of  the  poem  is,  though  it 
touches  upon  the  dark  threads  of  experience,  it  voices  a 
brave,  courageous,  almost  jocund  defiant  wisdom,  a  wis 
dom  that  might  be  mere  dry  philosophy  if  it  were  not 
sweetened  with  the  natural  grace  of  intellectualized  emo 
tions.  The  other  poems  in  the  volume  are  brightened  with 
this  same  quality,  but  decorated,  as  in  many  of  them,  with 
the  charm  of  things  that  have  their  existence  in  the  imma 
terial  world.  It  is  a  rare  power  Mr.  Low  has  of  evocable 
intuitions.  He  abstracts  essences  from  the  most  volatile 
subjects,  and  beauty  from  vanishings  which  his  swifter 
mood  embraces. 

The  Immigrants.  A  Lyric  Drama.  By  Percy  Mac- 
Kaye.  With  an  Introduction  by  Frederic  C.  Howe,  Com 
missioner  of  Immigration  at  the  Port  of  New  York.  (B. 
W.  Huebsch.)  Designed  as  the  text  of  an  opera  for  which 
Mr.  Frederic  S.  Converse  has  written  the  music,  the  war 
prevented  the  performance  of  "  The  Immigrants "  at  the 
Boston  Opera  House,  as  was  intended.  That  Mr.  Mac- 
Kaye  decided  to  publish  the  drama  is  a  benefit  to  every  one 
who  has  thought  and  studied  the  immigrant  problem.  We 
are  shown  that  the  immigrants  are  human;  not  only  are 
they  human  but  that  even  under  the  civil,  political  and 
social  restrictions  of  their  native  country  they  have  a  better 
opportunity  to  develop  the  spiritual  side  of  their  humanity 
than  America  has  cared  to  give  them.  That  there  is  a  bet 
ter  spirit  in  America  that  would  treat  these  helpless,  inex 
perienced,  and  trusting  children  of  the  soil,  Mr.  MacKaye 
shows  in  the  character  of  Noel,  the  artist.  The  landing  of 
the  immigrants  at  New  York,  the  deportation  of  Giovanni  by 
the  machinations  of  Scammon  in  order  to  secure  his  pros 
pective  bride  for  a  mistress,  and  the  final  scene  in  the 
slums  on  a  sweltering  summer  night  with  the  death  of  the 
young  sister  Lisetta,  the  murder  of  Scammon,  and  the  as 
sertion  of  the  immigrants  against  the  iniquitous,  false  op 
portunities  of  American  industrialism  —  which  the  police 
called  a  riot  —  is  portrayed  in  vivid  and  intense  lyrical 
verse. 

The  Sistine  Eve.  By  Percy  MacKaye.  (The  Macmil- 
lan  Co.)  Mr.  MacKaye  is,  in  a  way,  our  American 
Laureate.  With  a  true  poetic  gift,  with  an  imagina- 

239 


tion  that  acts  like  a  chemical  fluid,  he  has  raised 
the  poem  of  "  occasion "  into  a  reputable  and  distin 
guished  place  in  our  poetic  history.  He  has  added  a 
distinctly  new  and  original  note  to  American  poetry  in 
such  pieces  as  "  School "  and  "  Fight."  In  1909,  the  first 
edition  of  this  volume  was  published  under  the  title 
"  Poems."  Reissued  under  the  new  title  with  changes,  it 
deals  with  themes  chiefly  occasional,  lyrical  and  descrip 
tive.  Here  the  occasional  poems,  with  the  exception  of 
"  Ticonderoga "  and  the  Harvard  Phi  Beta  Kappa  poem  of 
1908,  are  not  as  impressively  striking  in  expression  and 
subject  as  the  later  ones  contained  in  the  "Uriel"  vol 
ume  of  1912,  and  the  "  Present  Hour  "  volume  of  last  year. 
But  the  lyrical  and  descriptive  pieces  are  quite  lovely. 

The  Likes  o'  Me.  By  Edmond  McKenna.  With  a  Pref 
ace  by  Max  Eastman.  (Hillacre  Bookhouse,  Riverside, 
Connecticut.)  The  public  will  do  well  to  pay  considerable 
attention  to  this  slim  volume.  Mr.  McKenna  is  a  militant 
warring  against  the  wrongs  of  civilization,  but  with  verse 
that  is  passionately  charged  with  truth.  He  employs  both 
formal  metre  and  free  rhythms.  In  the  series  of  verses 
that  make  up  the  poem  called  "  The  Likes  o'  Me,"  there 
is  an  austere  and  solemn  mysticism  of  a  soul  brooding 
upon  its  industrial  captivity  and  the  forces  which  batter  it 
from  within  and  without.  It  is  an  extraordinary  testa 
ment  of  the  millions  of  "  Mes "  in  our  industrial  world 
commenting  menacingly  of  the  relation  to  the  Master,  the 
Church,  the  State,  the  Ladies,  and  War.  There  is  more 
pity  and  sympathy  in  these  verses  than  one  would  sup 
pose  from  the  free  and  outspoken  expression  of  oppressive 
conditions.  But  as  Mr.  Eastman  says,  "  There  is  poetry 
and  truth  of  the  real  world  in  this  book,"  which  to  neglect 
is  to  betray  one's  faith  in  humanity  and  civilization. 

Songs  to  Save  a  Soul.  By  Irene  Rutherford  McLeod. 
(B.  W.  Huebsch.)  In  a  time  of  war  and  stress,  a  time  of 
expended  energy  for  military  preparation  and  the  severest 
strain  of  conflict  the  world  has  known,  England  has  yet 
found  the  spirit  and  enthusiasm  for  a  new  poet.  Not 
since  Masefield  has  an  English  poet  sprung  into  sudden 
popularity  with  the  justification  of  genius  as  Irene  Ruther 
ford  McLeod  has.  This  young  lady  of  twenty-three  has 
won  the  worship  of  the  most  authoritative  London  critics. 
"  She  has  touched,"  says  "W.  L.  George,  "  the  hem  of  two 
garments,  of  Blake  and  of  Francis  Thompson,  while  inain- 

240 


taining  herself."  And  Henry  W.  Nevinson  declares  that 
she  is  "  another  new  voice,  another  brave  and  beautiful 
spirit,  young  and  capable  of  the  poet's  insight  and  expres 
sion."  The  title  does  not  denote  a  religious  fervor  in  the 
conventional  sense,  but  a  social  and  spiritual  fervor  in  a 
poignantly  human  sense.  This  young  lady  is  modern;  but 
with  all  her  modernity  she  is  simple  with  the  white  flame 
of  emotion,  tender  with  the  conviction  of  an  heroic  faith. 
A  child's  wonder  yet  gleams  in  her  eyes,  but  behind  the 
wonder  is  something  as  old  as  fate  in  its  understanding. 
Her  voice  has  a  child's  music  piercingly  sweet  but  in  it  is 
the  echoes  of  a  mystery  that  troubled  the  dreams  of  the 
earliest  of  authentic  singers.  Her  lyrical  verse  is  as  light 
as  gossamer,  her  ballads  as  vigorous  and  wayward  as  that 
form  is  in  its  perfection,  but  whether  she  sing  in  ballad  or 
lyric  there  is  the  yearning  for  the  unattainable  ideal  of 
beauty,  the  questioning  of  life  by  a  passionate  and  unap 
peasable  spirit. 

Spoon  River  Anthology.  By  Edgar  Lee  Masters.  (The 
Macmillan  Co.)  This  has  been  the  most  widely  discussed 
volume  of  verse  published  this  year.  There  has  been  noth 
ing  like  it  before,  and  I  doubt  if  there  will  ever  be  again. 
It  comes  out  of  the  West  to  meet  Mr.  Frost's  achievement 
in  the  East.  It  is  original,  perhaps  the  most  original  piece 
of  literature  that  has  been  produced  in  America  for  a 
long  time.  The  Spoon  River  Anthology  is  a  novel  in 
verse;  it  is  the  first  successful  novel  in  verse  we  have  had 
in  American  literature.  It  brings  more  character  into  its 
pages  than  have  ever  been  brought  into  any  American 
novel.  It  more  vividly  paints  a  community  than  any  other 
work  in  prose  or  verse  that  I  know  of  in  American  litera 
ture.  And  it  does  so  by  drawing  scarcely  a  feature  of  the 
landscape,  but  by  sketching  the  human  characters  that 
made  the  life  of  the  community.  It  does  something  more, 
and  in  this  it  at  once  takes  its  place  among  those  master 
pieces  which  are  not  for  a  time  or  a  locality.  It  brings 
the  universal,  infinite  varieties  of  human  nature  into  the 
fabric  of  a  single  community.  To  see  the  immensity  of  this, 
we  must  realize  that  here  is  a  story  of  life  in  which  two 
hundred  and  four  lives  are  interwoven,  that  each  individual 
existence  is  a  plain,  unvarnished  tale,  and  that  each  tale 
touches  various  others  at  some  deep  and  critical  experi 
ence.  The  sleepers  in  the  cemetery  at  Spoon  River  made 
an  era,  an  epoch  of  life  in  the  community,  and  it  was  typi- 

241 


cal  of  what  by  the  slow  accumulation  of  years  takes  place 
in  every  community,  but  which  no  one  living  sees  or  can 
grasp.  Mr.  Masters  is,  like  Thomas  Hardy,  a  kind  of 
fatalist.  He  proves  to  us  that  the  gods  of  fate  and  cir 
cumstance  are  as  passionately  concerned  with  the  very  low 
est  of  humanity,  as  well  as  with  heroes  and  princes.  He 
is  thoroughly  American  in  spirit,  the  background  of  his 
town,  the  social  level  of  his  characters,  in  fact,  the  whole 
fabric  of  the  community  in  which  these  men  and  women, 
who  now  sleep  under  the  tombstones  in  the  cemetery  once 
lived,  is  a  plain,  midwestern  town  where  labor,  work,  and 
play,  are  carried  on  with  a  democratic  freedom  of  will 
and  responsibility.  As  poetry  there  has  been,  and  will 
continue,  much  discussion  about  this  book.  Free  verse  is  a 
suitable  and  adaptable  medium  in  which  to  render  the 
poetic  aspects  of  a  subject  in  a  limited  compass.  While 
it  is  true  that  each  separate  piece  in  Mr.  Masters'  book  is 
brief,  very  few  running  over  twenty  lines,  the  large  num 
ber  of  pieces  will  produce  to  many  readers  whose  ears  are 
not  attuned  to  the  subtle  cadences  of  rhythm  a  kind  of 
monotony.  But  there  is  poetry  here  in  the  formal  sense, 
and  in  another  sense  too,  that  cannot  be  denied.  For  all 
the  qualities  of  poetic  speech,  modulations  of  tones  that 
have  nothing  to  do  with  metrical  arrangement  of  words, 
but  everything  to  do  with  an  emotional  and  ironic  imag 
inativeness  of  substance.  One  accepts  the  poetry  in  this 
chronicle  of  Spoon  River,  without  bothering  very  much 
about  the  formality  of  it.  The  poetry  is  in  the  history  of 
Spoon  River  lives  that  would  still  be  dumb  had  not  Mr. 
Masters  given  them  a  voice.  Now  the  first  thing  that 
strikes  one  is  the  kind  of  concentrated  literalness  through 
which  we  learn  about  these  people,  from  Hod  Putt,  the 
murderer,  to  Isaiah  Beethoven,  who  sat  by  the  mill  con 
templating  life  under  the  shadow  of  death.  About  living 
characters,  even  though  they  were  alive  only  in  the  imagi 
nation  of  the  author,  no  writer  would  dare  be  so  frank, 
because  life,  no  matter  what  prying  art  and  philosophy  may 
make  of  it,  retains  its  secrets  somehow;  but  death  throws 
open  the  avenue  to  every  thought  and  desire,  and  there  is 
no  shame,  no  regret,  no  attitude  of  the  world  that  can 
make  any  difference.  Mr.  Masters  has  given  us  the  first 
Comedie  Humaine  in  verse. 

Song  of  Hugh  Glass.     By  John  G.  Neihardt.     (The  Mac- 
millan  Co.)     Mr.  Neihardt  has  found  himself  as  a  poet  in 

242 


this  long  narrative  of  adventurous  life  in  the  pioneer  days 
of  the  West.  The  fervid  breath  of  the  poems  in  his  two 
previous  volumes,  "  A  Bundle  of  Myrrh "  and  "  Man- 
Song  "  has  been  washed  clean  by  the  vigorous  mountain 
airs  of  this  elemental  song.  I  never  doubted  Mr.  Nei- 
hardt's  poetic  powers,  his  gift  of  imagination,  his  evocative 
vision,  his  extraordinary  technical  ability,  but  with  rare  ex 
ceptions  in  his  earlier  books  he  seemed  to  me  to  waste  these 
unusual  and  natural  poetic  gifts  upon  unworthy  subjects. 
His  wasn't  exactly  the  temperament  to  deal  with  sensuous 
themes;  he  got  all  the  magnificence,  glow,  desire,  passion, 
there  was  to  be  gotten  out  of  the  flesh,  but  somehow  it 
wasn't  real,  it  was  the  elaboration  of  a  Moreau  painting, 
of  Salome  or  of  Herodias,  without  the  spiritual  interest 
which  was  there,  however  smothered  by  the  insatiable  thirst 
of  the  flesh.  But  in  this  new  poem  he  touches  life,  power, 
beauty,  spirit,  the  tremendous  and  impressive  force  of 
nature,  and  combines  all  these  qualities  in  a  narrative  of  far 
more  convincing  interest  than  any  narrative  Masefield  has 
told  with  the  possible  exception  of  "  Dauber,"  more  human 
and  real  and  powerful  than  Noyes  has  yet  exhibited.  Be 
cause  it  is  Western  in  setting,  and  treats  the  life  of  pioneer 
characters  in  poetic  couplets,  and  therefore  an  experiment, 
is  no  reason  why  the  reader  accustomed  to  other  materials 
in  poetic  narratives  should  slight  this  performance.  Let 
me  assure  such  a  reader  at  the  outset  that  this  poem  is  an 
achievement  of  the  highest  order.  The  genius  of  American 
poetry  is  finding  itself  in  such  a  poem  as  this;  and  a  man 
of  Mr.  Neihardt's  gifts  employing  them  upon  such  hitherto 
unworked  fields  is  showing  the  wonderful  opportunities 
which  exist  in  this  country  and  its  history  for  poetic  ex 
pression.  The  story  of  Hugh  Glass'  crawl  across  country  is 
more  remarkable  than  anything  I  know  in  contemporary 
poetry.  It  is  intensified  with  episodes  that  hold  one  fasci 
nated.  This  man  crawling  the  earth  like  a  wounded  beast, 
nursing  a  hate  and  vengeance  that  gives  him  the  strength 
and  determination  to  accomplish  an  excruciating  and  im 
probable  task,  impresses  himself  upon  the  memory  as  no 
other  episode  in  contemporary  verse. 

Beside  the  Blackwater.  By  Norrey  Jephson  O'Conor. 
(The  John  Lane  Co.)  Quoting  the  "Birth  and  Life  of  St. 
Boling"  on  his  title-page  this  young  poet  gives  us  the  key 
to  his  dreams  in  this  volume.  The  poems  are  chiefly  a 
celebration  of  Irish  memories,  inspired  by  a  visit  to  that 

243 


country.  He  sings  of  her  fields,  her  fairies,  her  romantic 
figures,  her  spirit  through  the  many  manifestations  we 
have  associated  with  her  history  and  aspirations.  In  the 
section  of  "  Sonnets  and  Songs,"  he  expresses  in  well 
modulated  verse  a  variety  of  personal  themes. 

The  Light  Feet  of  Goats.  By  Shaemas  O  Sheel. 
(Gomme  and  Marshall.)  Mr.  O  Sheel  is  a  poet  who  has 
awakened  out  of  a  dream  in  which  he  has  seen  the  image 
of  mystery  and  goes  about  the  world  lamenting  that  it  is 
nowhere  to  be  possessed.  That  dream  has  been  of  the  dim 
and  shadowy  mysticism  of  the  Celtic  imagination.  Why, 
with  all  this  splendid  and  gorgeous  shaping  of  thoughts 
and  desires,  these  poignant  and  piercing  moods,  these 
poems  leave  one  unsatisfied?  Here  is  beauty  brimming 
over,  and  yet  the  cup  of  life  is  empty.  How  does  inef- 
fectuality  creep  into  one's  recognition  of  such  rich  dreams? 
Here  is  an  art  disembodied  as  Shelley's,  but  the  angel  of 
communication  was  always  there  on  those  swift  wings  of 
Shelley's  thought  and  dream.  Mr.  O  Sheel  is  an  avowed 
disciple  of  Yeats;  he  frankly  apes  his  manner  and  his 
substance;  but  like  his  master  images  vanish,  and  what  you 
snatch  is  a  handful  of  empty  sunlight.  If  one  could  hold 
that  sunlight,  one  would  have  kingdoms  and  principalities 
of  the  spirit,  but  lo !  it's  the  invisible  beams  that  your 
hand  holds  to  tell  you  it  is  day  when  you  look  upon  the 
open  palm.  One  reads  Mr.  O  Sheel's  poems  with  delight, 
however.  They  make  one  feel  that  not  blood  but  wine  is 
running  through  the  veins.  Pure  lyricism  was  never  more 
perfectly  wrought  in  our  day.  Take  poems  like  "  He 
Whom  a  Dream  Hath  Possessed,"  "  Thanksgiving  for  Our 
Task,"  "The  Pitilessness  of  Desire,"  "The  Lover  Telleth 
How  He  First  Saw  His  Lady,  in  the  Month  of  May,"  and 
the  gorgeous  "  Field  of  Dust,"  why  here  are  good  meas 
ures  of  Mangan,  Rossetti,  and  Yeats,  darkening  the  pulse 
with  heavy  and  elaborate  dreams  and  moods,  and  yet  no 
recollection  whatever  of  spiritual  or  physical  experience. 
That  it  fascinates  one  has  to  admit;  one  cannot  deny 
something  vague  and  undefined  that  haunts.  They  are  dim 
ritual  of  mystical  shadows  where  one  embraces  futilities. 

Sappho  in  Leukas  and  Other  Poems.  By  William  Alex 
ander  Percy.  (Yale  University  Press.)  It  wouldn't  be  ex 
travagant  at  all  to  say  that  "  Sappho  in  Leukas  "  is  a  mag 
nificent  poem.  It  is  one  of  the  three  long  poems  in  this 
volume, — "  St.  Francis  to  the  Birds,"  and  "  Girgenti "  be- 

244 


ing  the  other  two  —  gleaming  with  the  pure  radiance  of 
beauty.  Mr.  Percy's  art  is  woven  in  samite.  Its  sub 
stance  is  of  spiritual  aspiration.  It  is  full  of  the  faith  and 
wonder  of  youth  but  touched  with  humility,  rapturous  with 
bright  unconscious  grace.  The  longer  poems  are  the  best; 
into  them  the  poet  gets  a  lyrical  fervor  which  vanish  in 
the  shorter  ones  where  there  is  only  a  level  glow  of  his 
mood.  But  "  Sappho  in  Leukas "  is  richly  embroidered 
with  austerity  and  passion.  Sappho  has  seen  the  shepherd 
lad  Phaon,  and  realizes  that  the  flawless  and  noble  purity 
of  her  nature  has  been  shattered  by  passion.  The  poem  is 
a  long  confession  to  Zeus  of  the  conflict  between  her  old 
and  her  new  self.  The  bitterness  of  her  defeat  overwhelms 
her  when  she  succumbs  to  embrace  the  lad  and  passionately 
kisses  his  lips,  only  to  find  no  fire,  no  lust  in  his  blood; 
only  the  exalted  and  reverent  worship  for  her  divinity. 
The  humiliation  and  defeat  could  only  be  washed  clean  by 
death.  The  poet  has  illuminated  his  poem  with  a  wonder 
ful  vision  whose  radiance  flows  from  the  soul  of  Sappho 
with  pure  and  appealing  beauty.  "  St.  Francis  to  the  Birds," 
is  hardly  less  beautiful  with  its  vivid  portraiture  of  that 
gentle  Saint. 

Armageddon:  A  Modern  Epic  Drama  in  a  Prologue 
Series  of  Scenes  and  an  Epilogue  Written  Partly  in  Prose 
and  Partly  in  Verse.  By  Stephen  Phillips.  (John  Lane 
Co.)  Mr.  Phillips  comes  nearer  the  power  of  his  "  Herod  " 
and  "  Paolo  and  Francesca "  days  in  this  epic  drama  than 
anything  he  has  written  of  late.  A  touch  of  the  Greek 
motive  and  the  Greek  method  is  in  this  work,  and  while  he 
makes  circumstances  of  the  European  war  serve  as  the 
material  of  the  drama  the  issues  are  more  abstract  and 
profound.  The  atrocities  of  the  Germans  form  the  basis  of 
an  argument  which  deals  with  the  moral  right  to  revenge 
them.  And  with  this  conies  the  question,  not  of  national 
safety,  but  of  actions  and  emotions  that  will  preserve  the 
faith  of  humanity  and  the  world.  The  essence  of  this  faith 
is  presented  in  the  opportunity  which  comes  to  retaliate 
upon  the  Cologne  Cathedral  the  destruction  that  had  been 
perpetrated  against  Rheims,  and  to  save  the  world  from  the 
"  barrenness  of  revenge "  the  spirit  of  Joan  of  Arc  is 
evoked.  The  Epilogue,  with  its  scene  in  Hell  where  Attila 
is  seen  reporting  his  ravages  to  Satan,  affirms  the  signifi 
cance  of  the  poet's  message,  for  though  the  Satanic  biddings 
had  been  carried  out  his  final  utterance  is  a  cry  of  agony 

245 


in  realizing  the  eternal  supremacy  of  that  Power  against 
which  he  rebelled  in  the  beginning,  and  which  is  conquering 
him  again  with  a  Power  stronger  than  force. 

A  Shower  of  Verses  Containing  Mother's  Treasure  Book, 
Fancies,  Fairies,  and  Frolics,  Twilight  Poems.  By  Althea 
Randolph.  (The  H.  W.  Gray  Co.)  This  is  the  best  new 
child's  book  of  verses  I  have  read  for  a  long  while.  The 
author  has  caught  that  infectious  spirit  of  childhood's 
thought  and  fancies  with  the  same  perfection  of  na'ive 
speech  which  Stevenson  immortalized  in  "  A  Child's  Garden 
of  Verses."  This  is  genius  of  a  kind  that  few  possess  but 
which  has  been  given  to  Mrs.  Randolph  in  good  measure. 

Captain  Craig.  A  Book  of  Poems.  Revised  Edition, 
with  Additional  Poems.  By  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson. 
(The  Macmillan  Co.)  All  great  literature  demands,  to 
quote  a  line  from  "  Captain  Craig,"  "  magnanimous  advance 
through  self-acquaintance,"  and  the  great  popular  appre 
ciation  of  the  genius  of  Mr.  Robinson  has  been  retarded 
because  the  public  for  a  long  while  refused  him  it.  But 
this  poet  is  now  coming  into  his  own.  He  has  had  to  wait 
long.  But  he  knew  how  to  wait,  and  knowing  how  to  wait  is 
the  test  of  genius.  Now,  wherever  one  hears  people  who 
know,  speak  of  American  poets,  they  take  the  genius  and 
place  of  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson  as  granted.  They  will 
say:  We  are  in  a  wonderfully  poetic  period  just  now;  we 
have  poets  on  the  crown  of  Parnassus,  and  they  will  name 
you  Robert  Frost,  Amy  Lowell,  Edgar  Lee  Masters,  Anna 
Hempstead  Branch,  Ridgely  Torrence,  Olive  Tilford  Dar- 
gan,  Louis  Untermeyer,  James  Oppenheim,  Amelia  Josephine 
Burr,  Sara  Teasdale,  and  others,  but  on  the  topmost  peak 
they  assume  that  you  know  the  place  is  occupied  by  the 
silent  and  lordly  figure  of  this  singer.  The  first  edition  of 
"  Captain  Craig "  was  published  in  1902.  It  reached  a 
second  edition.  Now  thirteen  years  later  is  this  new  edition 
with  the  additions  of  the  "  Variations  of  Greek  Themes," 
and  the  poem  called  "The  Field  of  Glory."  "Captain 
Craig"  tells  the  story  of  an  old  derelict  picked  up  by  a 
youth  with  an  eye  to  character,  to  whom  the  captain  dis 
courses  about  his  career,  of  life  and  its  profound  mysteries 
in  relation  to  the  soul.  It  is  very  largely  a  portrait  of 
character,  character  from  almost  every  angle  of  human 
experience.  But  never  was  such  philosophic  wisdom  salted 
with  humor.  From  the  poem  one  can  choose  more  aphoristic 
saying  than  from  any  half  dozen  poems  of  the  same  length 

246 


in  American  poetry.  There  is  also  here  the  story  of  "  Isaac 
and  Archibald,"  the  fine  steel  engraving  of  "  Aunt  Imo 
gen  "  the  symbolic  "  Book  of  Annandale,"  and  the  shorter 
poems,  among  which  is  the  glorious  ballad  of  "  The  Return 
of  Morgan  and  Fingal,"  as  elaborately  wrought  with  a  dim 
vision  as  Browning's  "  Childe  Roland  to  the  Dark  Tower 
Came,"  and  the  famous  "  Cortege "  which  still  haunts  with 
its  grim  procession.  The  Greek  quality  in  Mr.  Robinson's 
art,  the  simplicity,  the  very  balance  and  purity  of  his 
pathos  and  humor,  his  absolute  recognition  of  fate  and 
destiny  in  human  circumstance,  made  it  almost  imperative 
that  he  should  give  us  these  paraphrases  of  the  Greek 
poets  which  he  has  added  to  this  edition  of  "  Captain 
Craig." 

Horizons.  By  Robert  Alden  Sanborn.  (The  Four  Seas 
Co.)  Mr.  Sanborn  succeeds  admirably  in  the  new  manner 
by  dealing  with  the  simplicities  of  experience.  He  observes 
life  wistfully  because  it  never  ceases  to  be  strange  and 
despite  its  many  complexities  he  retains  a  wonder  that  is 
well  protected  by  his  faith.  His  love  of  children  is  ex 
quisite,  and  one  suspects  that  his  allowances  for  the  faults 
of  humanity  is  his  belief  that  men  and  women  are  only,  after 
all,  grown  up  children.  In  such  poems  as  "  The  Crowd," 
and  "  The  Laughter  of  the  World,"  though  attacked  by  the 
pitifulness  of  much  in  human  nature,  he  makes  a  brave 
affirmation  of  this  aspiring  faith.  His  verse  is  distinguished 
for  its  concentration,  for  its  compact  images.  Both  their 
charm  and  strength  is  in  a  grace  of  tenderness  which  over 
flows  from  the  children's  poems  into  sterner  substances. 

The  Vale  of  Shadows  and  Other  Verses  of  the  Great  War. 
By  Clinton  Scollard.  (Gomme  and  Marshall.)  Mr.  Scollard 
has  applied  his  melodious  muse  with  its  decorative  images, 
which  has  always  been  associated  with  dreams  of  love, 
nature  and  chivalrous  instincts,  to  the  sterner  duty  of  vision- 
ing  the  evils  and  horrors  of  the  war.  It  serves  him  well  in 
this  as  in  his  gentler  moods.  He  hates  war  as  every  true 
poet  of  to-day  must;  he  inveighs  against  Germany  as  every 
true  American  who  loves  freedom  and  justice  must,  and 
shows  it  by  giving  his  poetic  sympathy  to  France,  in  "  The 
Madonna  of  Termonde,"  "  Louvain,"  and  "  Rheims."  What 
ever  the  causes  of  the  war,  about  which  we  are  confused,  the 
obvious  responsibility  for  it  he  believes,  is  upon  the  kings 
of  Europe. 

On  the  Romany  Road.    By  Rena  Gary  Sheffield.     (The 

247 


Voxton  Press,  Short  Hills,  N.  J.)  Mrs.  Sheffield's  book  of 
verse  is  cheery  company.  Her  Romany  road  leads  other 
ways  than  over  hill  and  down  dale;  there  are  the  ways  of 
wistfulness,  and  the  ways  of  laughter,  and  the  ways  of 
quiet  dreaming  about  the  simple  mysteries  of  life.  And 
so  one  will  expect  to  find  her  muse  in  motley,  only  after  the 
crowds  have  been  entertained  there  may  be  sighs  and  tears 
in  the  wayside  tavern  at  night,  when  the  old  questions  are 
asked  and  no  answer  can  be  coaxed  from  the  starry  inn- 
window. 

Some  Imagist  Poets:  An  Anthology.  (Houghton  Mif- 
flin  Co.)  The  advent  of  imagism  in  contemporary  poetry 
must  now  be  recognized  as  a  successful  revolt  against  cer 
tain  standards  of  outworn  poetic  traditions.  It  is  not,  as 
many  suppose,  so  violent  a  repudiation  of  the  vital  principles 
of  the  art;  it  seeks  rather  to  reestablish  those  principles 
in  more  definite  evocations.  Its  principles  and  aims 
are  not  unlike  the  principles  and  aims  of  Pre- 
Raphaelism  in  painting.  As  Rossetti  and  his  associates 
went  to  the  early  Italian  painters  for  a  mode  of  ex 
pression,  so  Amy  Lowell  and  her  associates  find  in  the 
Greek  Melic  poets  a  mode  of  expression  which  they  have 
adapted.  It  is  the  purpose  of  this  group  to  eliminate  the 
exhausted  and  monotonous  and  mechanical  rhythms  of  the 
art,  gaining  for  it  the  liberty  to  create  a  new  rhythmic 
speech  in  which  cadence  and  idea  or  emotion  will  be  one 
body  of  expression;  and  to  deal  with  subjects  visually,  by 
employing  the  exact  language  of  speech  in  presenting  and 
fixing  an  image  of  life  and  nature.  A  similarity  in  the 
treatment  of  their  subjects,  the  contemporary  Imagist 
differs  radically  from  the  Victorian  Pre-Raphaelite  in  the 
absolute  freedom  he  allows  himself  in  the  choice  of  subject 
and  chronology.  His  independence  goes  further  in  recog 
nizing  no  ethical  or  moral  values  in  the  substance  of  a 
theme.  The  Imagist  poets  reproduce  nature  more  exactly 
in  this  than  any  of  their  contemporaries.  Yet  there  is  no 
lack  of  spiritual  fervor  in  their  work.  It  is  the  spirituality 
of  a  clear  flame,  somewhat  like  the  old  pagan  sensibility, 
through  which  life  came  concentrated  both  in  substance  and 
expression.  The  six  poets  whose  work  is  included  in  this 
volume  are  Richard  Aldington,  H.  D.,  John  Gould  Fletcher, 
F.  S.  Flint,  D.  H.  Lawrence,  and  Amy  Lowell.  Three  of 
these  are  American  and  three  English.  Miss  Lowell  is  un 
doubtedly  the  most  gifted  of  all  this  group  both  in  the 

248 


variety  and  intensity  of  her  art,  though  in  all  there  is  a 
streak  of  genius  which  if  not  always  above  the  surface  of 
their  work,  is  discernible  below  it.  In  another  American, 
H.  D.,  there  is  a  fascinatingly  tenuous  and  fleeting  qual 
ity  which  baffles  analysis;  her  art  is  as  hard  as  a  gem, 
but  warm  with  colors  flawless  in  purity.  Richard  Alding 
ton's  art  at  its  best,  is  as  forceful  in  imaginative  interest  as 
Miss  Lowell's,  but  he  is  not  always  as  balanced  and  does  not 
measure  her  more  various  and  comprehensive  human  out 
look.  John  Gould  Fletcher,  F.  S.  Flint  and  D.  H.  Lawrence 
are  all  possessed  of  extraordinarily  vivid  powers,  and  both 
their  pictorial  and  emotional  strength  reach  a  high  degree. 
Now  all  the  poems  of  these  writers  are  veined  with  roman 
ticism,  and  yet  nothing  is  so  realistic  as  the  themes  they 
deal  with.  They  pretend  to  no  careful  selection  of  subject, 
and  the  subjects  which  they  choose  have  no  particular  en 
dowment  of  personal  sympathy,  yet  all  the  attributes  of  a 
beautiful  thing  stands  out  as  clearly  as  words  can  make 
them.  Everything  is  said  with  the  greatest  economy  of 
speech,  yet  nothing  essential  is  omitted,  and  the  result  is 
that  the  power  of  suggestion  was  never  more  dynamic  in 
contemporary  verse.  Imagist  poetry  seems  to  me  the  true 
romantic  note  in  the  art  to-day. 

The  Song  of  Roland.  Translated  into  English  Verse.  By 
Leonard  Bacon.  (Yale  University  Press.)  The  prize  of  the 
year  to  the  translation  of  a  masterpiece  must  go  to  Mr. 
Bacon  for  his  rendering  of  "  The  Song  of  Roland."  This 
greatest  and  earliest  of  the  Romance  Epics  stands,  I  believe, 
for  the  first  time  in  this  translation  to  English  readers  true 
to  the  figure  in  which  Gaston  Paris  symbolized  its  greatness 
and  beauty.  "  At  the  entrance  of  the  Sacred  Way,"  Mr. 
Bacon  quotes  him,  "  where  are  arrayed  the  monuments  of 
eight  centuries  of  our  literature,  the  Song  of  Roland  stands 
like  an  arch  massively  built  and  gigantic;  it  is  narrow,  per 
haps,  but  great  in  conception,  and  we  cannot  pass  beneath  it 
without  admiration,  without  respect,  or  without  pride." 
And  Mr.  Bacon  comments  "that  the  Song  of  Roland  is 
something  more  than  a  striking  story.  Consecrating  the 
pursuit  of  the  feudal  ideal  as  it  did,  it  must  have  become 
an  ethical  force  of  a  positive  type.  Who  can  say  what 
France  may  not  have  owed  in  her  stormy  formative  years  to 
a  poem  which  so  triumphantly  celebrated  that  loyalty  and 
sense  of  national  unity  of  which  the  country  stood  in  such 
bitter  need?  ...  At  all  events  France  owes  to  her  first  and 

249 


greatest  epic  the  earliest  example  of  that  patriotism,  that 
fine  tendency  to  act  as  an  undivided  nation,  which  has  made 
her  a  spiritual  leader  of  the  races  of  men." 

The  Home  Book  of  Verse  for  Young  Folks.  Compiled 
by  Burton  E.  Stevenson.  With  Cover,  and  Illustrations  in 
Color  and  Black  and  White  by  Willy  Pogany.  (Henry 
Holt  and  Co.)  What  Mr.  Stevenson  accomplished  for 
adults  in  "  The  Home  Book  of  Verse  "  he  succeeds  in  this 
volume  in  doing  for  children.  He  has  made  a  collection 
so  comprehensive,  well  arranged  and  of  such  unusual  quality 
that  it  is  beyond  question  the  most  satisfactory  work  of 
its  kind  in  our  literature.  It  is  suitable  for  the  child  of 
six  or  seven,  and  keeps  pace  with  the  progress  of  the 
juvenile  mind  and  interests  as  they  grow,  and  still  at  seven 
teen  the  youth  finds  in  its  pages  verse  to  satisfy  its  fancy 
and  imagination,  its  sympathies  and  ideals.  Beginning  with 
Nursery  rhymes  and  lullabies,  it  develops  through  child 
rhymes  and  jingles  to  more  mature  nonsense  verse;  fairy 
tales  and  Christmas  follows;  nature  verse  and  rhymed 
stories  then  take  up  the  pattern  of  arrangement;  grades 
through  the  trumpet  and  drum  period,  in  which  an  effort  is 
made  to  teach  true  patriotism,  concluding  in  the  final  appeal 
of  "  Life  Lessons "  and  "  A  Garland  of  Gold,"  the  latter 
a  selection  of  the  great  poems  for  all  ages.  While  Mr. 
Stevenson  has  drawn  upon  all  the  great  range  of  classic 
verse  for  children,  he  has  included  a  body  of  verse  not  so 
well  known  but  deserving  the  same  share  of  popularity. 
In  addition  he  has  discovered  many  real  gems  that  have 
not  hitherto  appeared  in  an  anthology.  The  "  Home  Book 
of  Verse  for  Young  Folks "  is  as  indispensable  a  posses 
sion  for  the  children  as  any  material  comfort  a  parent  can 
give  them. 

Rivers  to  the  Sea.  By  Sara  Teasdale.  (The  Macmillan 
Co.)  There  is  in  Miss  Teasdale's  art  the  purest  song 
quality  in  American  poetry.  Her  poems  are  brief,  allur 
ing  and  simple  in  expression.  No  mystery,  no  symbol,  no 
inexplicable  allusions,  are  woven  into  them.  They  are  swift 
like  swallows,  with  emotions;  glittering  and  sparkling  with 
the  sunlight  of  love,  on  which  an  occasional  shadow  falls. 
The  pain  of  love  is  no  less  exquisite  than  its  joys.  Love 
is  her  great  theme.  Though  there  is  not  a  line  in  all  these 
songs  that  has  a  touch  of  the  maudlin  or  sentimental.  The 
mood  is  always  a  common  mood,  but  spontaneous,  sincere, 
fresh  with  a  new  experience,  passionate  but  not  sensuous, 

250 


rapturous  but  not  riotous,  graceful  without  being  elaborate, 
infectious,  captivating,  with  the  fresh  and  familiar  emo 
tions  of  humanity.  In  the  Elizabethan  song-books  the  love 
poetry  was  the  natural  speech  of  artistic  emotions;  those 
anonymous  poets  for  the  most  part  made  love  a  delicate 
and  exquisite  decoration  of  moods;  Miss  Teasdale  is  natural 
in  her  moods  and  emotions,  her  speech  is  common  language 
brightened  and  polished  with  simplicity,  through  which 
poignancy  and  exaltation  runs  like  a  golden  weave.  She 
is  able  to  transmute  any  environment,  any  atmosphere,  any 
circumstance,  where  the  presence  of  love  is  found,  into  a 
fairyland  of  hope  and  surprise,  into  a  sanctuary  of  human 
joy;  and  where  the  glory  of  love  has  faded,  she  has  the 
power  to  make  the  sunshine  a  shadow  because  of  it.  Though 
she  sings  of  love  orchestrally  in  these  many  songs  taken  as 
a  whole,  it  is  not  her  only  theme  in  this  book.  Her  imagina 
tion  is  too  vivacious,  her  visioning  too  curious  not  to  see 
life  many-motived,  and  so,  but  with  the  same  melodious  and 
evocative  perceptions  she  sings  of  many  experiences.  There 
are  the  vignettes  of  travel,  and  in  concluding  her  volume 
the  splendid  and  passionate  monologue  on  Sappho  which 
is  very  ample  evidence  of  her  sustained  imaginative  powers. 

The  White  Messenger  and  Other  Poems.  By  Edith  M. 
Thomas.  (Richard  G.  Badger.)  In  the  short  dramatic 
piece  called  "  The  White  Messenger  "  Miss  Thomas  paints  a 
vivid  ideal  for  the  cessation  of  war.  The  scene  is  laid 
vaguely  in  central  Europe  and  the  time  is  in  the  future. 
Memories  of  the  present  war  is  still  fresh  in  men's  minds 
as  the  rumor  of  another  great  war  to  come  is  preparing  a 
powerful  empire  for  service.  Among  the  nations  the 
"  White  Messenger,"  a  woman,  mysterious  in  her  powers 
and  speech,  has  been  wandering  and  preaching  peace,  and 
exhorting  the  peasantry  to  refuse  to  fight.  All  Miss 
Thomas'  customary  strength  and  beauty  of  poetic  style  is 
in  this  dramatic  fragment.  The  other  poems  in  the  book 
deal  with  different  phases  of  war  and  peace. 

Processionals.  By  John  Curtis  Underwood.  (Mitchell 
Kennerley.)  Mr.  Underwood  is  a,,  progressive  in  both  art 
and  life.  This  voluminous  collection  of  his  poems  deals 
with  both  in  vigorous  terms.  His  graces  are  the  graces  of 
life  rather  than  literature.  He  lacks  charm  and  subtlety  in 
modelling  his  subjects,  but  what  they  lack  in  these  two 
essential  elements  of  poetic  style  they  very  nearly  make  up 
for  by  strength  and  dignity,  by  an  almost  passionate  re- 

251 


gard  for  truth  and  sympathy.  He  indulges  in  no  poetic 
moods  as  that  experience  is  conventionally  known;  he  has  a 
searching  spirit  that  seeks  in  strange  places,  and  unusual 
characters  for  the  wild  and  forceful  pulses  of  life.  No 
part  of  the  world  is  unfamiliar  to  him,  and  wherever  the 
wandering  instinct  carries  him  he  turns  the  experience  into 
vigorous  verse.  His  volume  is  divided  into  ten  groups  deal 
ing  with  "  Cosmics,"  "  Moderns,"  "  Women,"  "  Arts," 
"Regional,"  "The  Open  Question,"  "Pain,"  "People," 
"  Moods,"  and  "  Things."  In  all  these  is  shown  a  freed 
spirit,  one  whose  thought  tenderly  caresses  the  whole  world, 
one  quick  of  denunciation,  but  long-forgiving  in  nature,  who 
celebrates  toil  in  all  its  forms,  and  pays  his  tribute  to  the 
achievements  of  science  and  art.  Strong  and  courageous  he 
carries  a  man's  message. 

The  Cloister:  A  Play  in  Four  Acts.  By  Emile  Ver- 
haeren.  Translated  by  Osman  Edwards.  (Houghton  Mif- 
flin  Co.)  Le  Cloftre  was  first  published  in  1900,  and  pro 
duced  the  latter  part  of  the  same  year  at  Brussels,  and  ten 
years  later  was  given  in  Berlin,  and  in  Manchester  by  Miss 
Horniman's  company.  It  is  a  play  without  a  woman  charac 
ter,  dramatising  a  "  tragic  story  of  human  misery  intensi 
fied  by  a  religious  setting."  "  Behind  each  monk,"  says  Mr. 
Edwards,  "  behind  Balthazar,  Thomas,  Mark,  the  Prior, 
stands  an  idea,  one  of  the  weapons  with  which  the  Church 
has  conquered  the  world.  Behind  the  whole  group  of  monks 
is  an  ecclesiastical  ideal,  that  of  separate  and  exclusive 
jurisdiction,  one  that  seemed  no  less  injurious  to  the  com 
munity  in  the  author's  eyes  than  the  military  claim  to  a 
similar  privilege,  which,  at  the  time  of  the  composition  of 
the  play,  was  causing  the  case  of  Dreyfus  to  ring  through 
Europe.  The  presence  of  these  large  but  implicit  rather 
than  explicit  factors  in  the  problem  of  Balthazar's  ruin  must 
be  borne  in  mind,  if  we  would  realize  the  scope  of  the  poet's 
aim.  Superficially  we  are  concerned  with  the  struggle  for 
succession  to  the  Priorate  between  two  rivals,  of  whom  the 
loser  is  disqualified  by  suicidal  remorse.  Actually,  however, 
Balthazar  is  not  merely  the  victim  of  a  frantic  conscience. 
He  is  also  the  spokesman  of  emotional,  intuitive  faith,  which 
contrasts  with  the  keen  and  subtle  scholasticism  of  his  op 
ponent."  In  spite  of  its  tragic  substance  the  play  has  great 
charm,  and  presents  a  remarkable  picture  in  which  Ver- 
haeren  drapes  his  characters  in  the  "  folds  of  splendid 
rhetoric." 

252 


The  Dawn  (Les  Aubes).  By  Emile  Verhaeren.  Trans 
lated  by  Arthur  Lymons.  (Small,  Maynard  and  Co.)  M. 
Verhaeren's  most  important  play  was  translated  by  Arthur 
Symons  many  years  ago,  but  it  has  long  been  out  of  print, 
and  I  am  glad  to  chronicle  this  new  American  edition.  As 
Arthur  Symons  remarks  in  his  introduction,  "  the  poetry 
of  Emile  Verhaeren,  more  than  that  of  any  other  modern 
poet,  is  made  directly  out  of  the  complaining  voices  of  the 
nerves."  This  play,  where  the  poet's  inspiration  uses  to 
its  finest  height,  is  a  plea  for  pacifism  written  long  before 
the  invasion  of  Belgium  could  ever  have  been  imagined.  In 
the  fine  nervous  verse  of  Arthur  Symons,  so  accurately  re 
flecting  the  subtlest  cadences  of  the  original,  you  may  read 
with  all  the  satisfaction  of  an  artistic  rendering  what  is 
probably  the  masterpiece  of  Belgian  poetry  and  drama. 

The  Pilgrim  Kings:  Greco  and  Goya  and  Other  Poems 
of  Spain.  By  Thomas  Walsh.  (The  Macmillan  Co.),  Mr. 
Walsh  gives  us  in  these  poems  the  soul  of  Spain,  through 
her  glories  of  the  past  and  her  realities  of  the  present. 
Especially  does  he  interpret  the  great  traditions  of  the 
country's  culture  and  religious  spirit  through  the  great 
artists,  El  Greco,  Goya  and  Velasquez,  at  the  same  time 
painting  most  vividly  the  personality  and  genius  of  those 
rare  men.  In  such  pieces  as  "  Greco  Paints  His  Master 
piece,"  "  The  Maids  of  Honor,"  "  Goya  in  the  Cupola,"  and 
"  Greco's  Last  Judgment "  he  paints  in  warm  and  glowing 
colors  dramatic  incidents  in  the  lives  of  men  who  helped 
to  make  the  country  great  in  spirit  and  culture.  And  in 
many  of  these  poems  is  the  beautiful  light  of  the  great 
Church,  its  mysticism  and  symbols  prefiguring  the  substance. 
Perhaps  no  poem  in  the  book  so  impressively  and  power 
fully  renders  the  profounder  mood  of  the  country  as 
"Egidio  of  Coimbra  —  1S9T,  A.  D.,"  while  in  "  Alhambra 
Songs  "  the  poet  gives  us  pictures  and  scenes  of  vivid  inter 
est.  There  are  poems  in  Mr.  Walsh's  book  that  do  not  deal 
with  Spanish  subjects  or  life,  and  in  these  he  presents  the 
same  glowing  and  melodious  verse  as  in  the  more  romantic 
themes. 

The  Faith  of  Princes  With  a  Sheaf  of  Sonnets.  By 
Harvey  M.  Watts.  (The  John  C.  Winston  Co.)  The  titular 
poem  here  is  a  soliloquy  by  Cesare  Borgia,  Duke  of  Urbino, 
on  the  eve  of  ordering  the  execution  of  his  creature,  Ramiro 
d'Orco,  at  Cesena,  being  as  the  poet  states  an  "  apologue 
for  the  times,"  and  also  a  "  gloss,  for  this  year  of  grace  1915, 

253 


on  '  The  Prince,'  by  Niccolo  Machiavelli."  In  using  the 
figure  of  Borgia  as  the  symbol  of  the  kind  of  statecraft 
which  dominates  the  warlike  imperialism  of  Germany,  the 
poet  produces  an  effective  and  thoughtful  piece  of  work. 
The  reflections  which  he  puts  in  the  mouth  of  his  tyrant 
on  the  gospel  of  Might  making  Right,  and  of  divine  per 
sonal  prerogatives  of  monarchy  are  full  of  ironic  contrasts 
to  modern  governmental  conceptions.  The  verse  sweeps 
with  dignity  and  rises  at  places  in  bold  and  impassioned 
images.  The  sonnets  to  various  countries  at  war  are  very 
good. 

The  Poet  in  the  Desert.  By  Charles  Erskine  Wood. 
(Press  of  F.  W.  Baltes  and  Co.,  Portland,  Oregon.)  The 
Prologue  to  this  lengthy  poem  is  a  picture  of  the  desert 
which  the  poet  describes  in  all  its  glory  and  beauty,  its 
lonely  and  tragic  significance.  It  is  a  rhapsody,  poetically 
more  appealing  than  the  dialogue  which  follows  between  the 
Poet  and  Truth,  in  which  the  injustices  of  modern  civiliza 
tion  are  censured,  and  an  ardent  aspiration  for  social  de 
mocracy  is  voiced.  When  Mr.  Wood  is  less  conscious  of 
the  cause  he  preaches,  as  in  the  Prologue,  and  allows  his 
muse  to  consider  the  bountiful  and  gorgeous  array  of  na 
ture,  his  poetry  is  full  of  fire  and  imagery  sweeping  on  the 
wings  of  his  free  rhythms.  There  is  a  quality  of  nobleness 
in  the  poem  to  set  us  watching  for  Mr.  Wood's  future 
work  with  a  keen  interest  and  expectation. 

Poems.  By  Dana  Burnet.  (Harper  and  Brothers.) 
The  significance  of  Mr.  Burnet's  art  is  in  its  visualizing 
power;  he  presents  without  over-emphasis  of  either  image 
or  emotion  the  essential  spiritual  characteristics  in  more 
themes  than  any  poet  has  given  us  in  a  single  book  during 
the  past  two  or  three  years.  It  is  a  subtlety  in  itself  that 
reaches  a  little  beyond  art  which  enables  him  to  sing  of 
war  as  he  does  in  "  The  Battle  of  Liege,"  "  Christmas  in 
the  Trenches,"  or  "Albert  of  Belgium,"  or  of  "The  Sack 
of  Panama,"  or  tell  the  modern  urban  story  of  "  Gayheart," 
or  of  "  The  Woolworth  Building,"  or  "  From  an  '  L '  Train 
Window,"  and  make  the  subject  vivid  with  its  own  essence 
while  harmonizing  them  all  in  a  kind  of  spiritual  pattern. 
Versatility  is  not  the  name  to  characterize  such  powers;  it 
goes  deeper,  or  higher,  as  one  wills,  into  those  regions 
where  genius  has  its  abiding  secrets.  The  energy  which 
produces  upon  such  a  scale,  a  scale  which  pitches  no  false 
note,  is  the  true  poetic  energy.  Few  first  books  in  the 

254, 


past  decade  have  so  thoroughly  achieved  for  its  author  the 
security  of  place  among  the  important  poets  of  his  day. 
The  popular  recognition  which  Mr.  Burnet  has  won  through 
his  magazine  work  of  the  past  two  years  will  be  turned  by 
this  volume  into  substantial  and  lasting  admiration. 

The  Factories  with  Other  Lyrics.  By  Margaret  Wid- 
demer.  (The  John  C.  Winston  Co.)  The  title  of  Miss  Wid- 
demer's  volume  does  not  wholly  do  justice  to  the  best  of 
its  substance.  She  has  the  power  to  make  a  social  theme 
poetic,  but  her  art  is  very  much  lovelier,  more  imaginative 
and  musical  in  those  lyrics  and  songs  where  she  surrenders 
to  a  mood  or  dream  instead  of  being  captured  by  an  idea 
or  conviction.  When  she  surrenders  her  art  is  delightfully 
full  of  spells  and  intuitions;  then  life  and  love  and  nature 
pour  their  golden  dreams  into  her  heart. 

The  Cup  of  Comus:  Fact  and  Fancy.  By  Madison 
Cawein.  (The  Cameo  Press.)  This  posthumous  collection 
of  Madison  Cawein's  poems  was  gathered  by  Rose  de 
Vaux-Royer,  to  be  known  as  the  "  Friendship  Edition,"  as 
it  "  carries  in  its  significance  a  testimonial  of  love  and 
admiration  for  the  author,  extended  by  those  who  wish 
his  last  collected  poems  preserved  for  futurity."  The  edi 
tion  is  limited  to  five  hundred  copies. 

Italy  in  Arms.  By  Clinton  Scollard.  (Gomme  &  Mar 
shall.)  Mr.  Scollard's  second  book  related  to  the  war,  is 
devoted  to  Italy.  Not  only  does  it  give  voice  to  the  soul  of 
Italy  in  the  present  conflict,  but  expresses  the  tribute  of 
love  and  veneration  which  the  poet  has  for  that  historic 
nation,  its  glories  and  people  The  mellow  music  of  that 
sunny  land  echoes  in  Mr.  Scollard's  rhythms,  and  will  bring 
to  his  many  admirers  the  enjoyment  in  his  art  which  each 
book  increases. 


255 


LIST  OF  IMPORTANT  PUBLICATIONS 

DEALING  WITH  POETS  AND 

POETRY 

Milton.  By  John  Bailey.  (Henry  Holt  and  Company.) 
John  Bailey,  whose  criticism  has  been  for  years  the  most 
valuable  feature  of  the  London  Times  Weekly  Review  of 
Books,  has  contributed  to  the  Home  University  Library  an 
exceptionally  important  study  of  Milton.  The  revival  of 
interest  in  the  poet  during  the  past  three  years  has  been 
accompanied  by  the  publication  of  numerous  books  of 
biography  and  criticism.  Though  the  present  volume  is 
probably  the  briefest  of  these,  it  is  also  the  most  compact 
and  authoritative.  It  is  a  distinguished  addition  to  Eng 
lish  criticism. 

A  Walk  in  Other  Worlds  with  Dante.  By  Marion  8. 
Bainbridge.  (E.  P.  Button  and  Co.)  This  volume  is  a 
reverent  attempt  to  guide  the  reader  through  the  winding 
paths  of  Dante's  cosmology  and  to  render  the  subtleties  of 
his  vision  more  plain  to  the  reader  who  approaches  the 
poet  for  the  first  time  and  finds  himself  in  a  strange  world 
in  which  it  is  difficult  to  make  one's  way.  Much  of  Dante's 
symbolism  is  obscure  because  of  its  scholastic  philosophy 
with  which  many  of  the  present  generation  have  lost  touch. 
With  this  new  handbook  many  obscure  places  in  the 
reader's  path  will  shine  clearly. 

William  Blake,  Poet  and  Mystic.  By  P.  Berger, 
Authorized  Translation  from  the  French  by  Daniel  H. 
Conner.  (E.  P.  Dutton  &  Co.)  This  volume  is  the  most 
important  poetic  biography  published  this  year.  The  stu 
dent  of  Blake  who  masters  its  contents  will  be  compelled 
to  sustain  Swinburne's  contention  that  this  is  the  only 
adequate  study  of  Blake.  I  wish  that  space  permitted  an 
analysis  of  its  illuminating  contents.  The  symbolic  books 
which  are  the  most  essential  fulfilment  of  Blake's  purpose 
have  been  the  subject  of  much  elucidation  by  Ellis  and 
Yeats,  but  M.  Berger  has  interpreted  them  for  the  first 
time  in  a  really  orderly  manner.  The  volume  ranks  with 
Ellis's  life  of  Blake. 

Goethe,  with  Special  Consideration  of  His  Philosophy. 
By  Paul  Carus.  (Open  Court  Publishing  Co.)  Although 
the  volumes  interpreting  Goethe's  philosophy  are  legion, 
Dr.  Carus  justifies  his  new  volume  by  its  wealth  of  pic- 

256 


torial  illustration  and  his  translations  of  much  fine  poetry 
by  Goethe  hitherto  inaccessible  in  English.  These  trans 
lations  are  my  reason  for  bringing  the  volume  to  the  spe 
cial  attention  of  readers  of  poetry. 

The  Ballade.  By  Helen  Louise  Cohen,  Ph.D.  (Colum 
bia  University  Press.)  This  is  the  first  complete  study  of 
the  ballade  which  has  been  published  in  England.  Its 
exhaustive  treatment  of  the  ballade's  history  and  tech 
nique  make  it  probable  that  it  will  last  as  the  classical 
work  on  the  subject  for  many  years.  After  a  minute  re 
search  into  the  origins  of  the  ballade,  its  history  in  France 
from  the  end  of  the  fourteenth  century  to  Boileau  is 
chronicled  with  special  attention  to  its  technical  develop 
ment  and  structural  modifications.  The  middle  English 
ballade  is  treated  with  equal  thoroughness,  and  many  new 
English  and  French  mediaeval  ballades  are  here  printed 
for  the  first  time  from  the  European  manuscript  sources. 
The  main  part  of  the  book  closes  with  a  study  of  the  nine 
teenth  century  ballade,  including  the  best  contemporary 
French,  English,  and  American  work  in  this  form. 
Poetry  composed  in  the  Puy,  The  Serventois,  and  the  chant 
royal  are  studied  in  supplementary  chapters,  and  the  vol 
ume  is  rendered  complete  by  a  careful  bibliography  of 
manuscripts  and  printed  sources. 

Critical  Essays  of  the  Eighteenth  Century.  1700-1725. 
Edited  by  Willard  Higley  Durham,  Ph.D.  (Yale  Uni 
versity  Press.)  If  Dr.  Durham  completes  his  announced 
series  of  texts  of  which  this  volume  is  the  first,  we  shall 
have  the  first  adequately  representative  body  of  eighteenth 
century  criticism  accessible  to  the  reader.  This  volume  in 
cludes  the  most  significant  criticism  published  between 
1700  and  1725,  and  much  of  it  is  devoted  to  poetry.  Here 
you  will  find  representative  essays  by  Charles  Gildon,  John 
Hughes,  John  Dennis,  Farquhar,  Steele,  Addison,  Pope, 
Leonard  Welsted,  and  Allan  Ramsay.  The  reprint  of  Far- 
quhar's  Discourse  on  Comedy  is  sufficient  to  make  the  vol 
ume  indispensable  to  the  private  library. 

Essays  and  Studies  by  Members  of  the  English  Associa 
tion  ("Rhythm  in  English  Verse,  Shelley's  Triumph  of 
Life"),  Oxford.  At  the  Clarendon  Press. 

Rudyard  Kipling.  A  Critical  Study.  By  Cyril  Falls. 
(Mitchell  Kennerley.)  While  this  volume  is  essentially  a 
study  of  Kipling  as  a  writer  of  fiction,  I  touch  upon  it 
here  because  the  chapter  in  it  devoted  to  Kipling's  poetry 

257 


is  a  model  of  sane  urbane  criticism.  It  is  characteristic  of 
Mr.  Falls  that  he  walks  with  somewhat  excessive  care  be 
tween  two  safe  walls  of  fact,  but  clinging  to  his  objective 
limitations  he  succeeds  in  saying  the  just  word  about  Kip 
ling  as  a  poetic  artist. 

The  Teaching  of  Poetry  in  the  High  Schools.  By  Arthur 
H.  R.  Fairchild.  (Riverside  Educational  Monographs.) 
(Houghton  Mifflin  Co.) 

Representative  English  Comedies.  With  Introductory 
Essays  and  Notes.  An  Historical  View  of  Our  Earlier 
Comedy,  and  Other  Monographs  by  Various  Writers. 
Under  the  General  Editorship  of  Charles  Mills  Gayley. 
Three  Volumes.  (The  Macmillan  Co.)  The  wealth  of 
material  contained  in  these  three  volumes  which  deal  with 
English  Comedy  from  the  Beginnings  to  the  Later  Con 
temporaries  of  Shakespeare  cannot  begin  to  be  summarized 
here.  They  include  a  small  library  of  the  best  English 
comedies  by  eighteen  dramatists  edited  with  a  rich  criti 
cal  apparatus,  together  with  many  monographs  on  histori 
cal  and  critical  aspects  of  English  comedy  and  biographical 
articles  by  scholars  of  such  distinction  as  Alfred  W.  Pol 
lard,  Henry  Bradley,  George  P.  Baker,  George  E.  Wood- 
berry,  the  late  Edward  Dowden,  Charles  H.  Herford,  Sir 
A.  W.  Ward,  Brander  Matthews,  George  Saintsbury  and 
many  others,  among  whom  the  work  of  Professor  Gayley 
is  not  the  least  valuable.  Apart  from  their  value  for  col 
lege  work,  they  take  their  permanent  place  on  the  library 
shelf,  to  which  later  volumes  in  the  series  will  be  added 
from  year  to  year. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.  By  O.  W.  Firkins.  (Houghton 
Mifflin  Co.) 

The  Poets  Laureate  of  England:  Their  History  and 
Their  Odes.  By  W.  Forbes  Gray.  (E.  P.  Dutton  &  Co.) 
There  was  room  for  a  history  of  the  Laureateship  in  Eng 
land  since  the  days  of  Ben  Jonson,  and  this  volume  sup 
plies  the  want  adequately.  It  tells  us  much  that  we  are 
glad  to  learn  about  the  less  familiar  laureates,  including 
much  pleasant  literary  gossip  about  eighteenth  century 
worthies. 

Poets  and  Puritans.  By  T.  R.  Glover.  (E.  P.  Dutton 
&  Co.) 

Life  and  Letters  in  the  Italian  Renaissance.  By  Chris 
topher  Hare.  (Charles  Scribner's  Sons.)  Christopher 
Hare  is  known  to  us  by  many  studies  of  life  and  manners 

258 


in  the  Italian  Renaissance,  but  now  he  turns  to  the  literary 
life  of  the  period,  and  in  his  pleasantly  allusive  style,  re 
minding  us  often  of  Symonds  in  his  pageantry  of  color, 
he  introduces  us  to  the  life  of  Lorenzo  the  Magnificent, 
Poligiano,  Sannezzaro,  Pulci,  Boiardo,  and  Ariosto,  and 
translates  much  of  the  poetry  of  the  period. 

Browning  Studies.  By  Vernon  C.  Harrington.  (Rich 
ard  G.  Badger.)  Professor  Harrington  has  here  set  down 
in  their  original  colloquial  style  the  lectures  on  Browning  he 
has  given  for  years  to  his  students  at  Oberlin  and  Middle- 
bury.  Their  informality  is  refreshing,  while  their  sub 
stance  is  sound  and  valuable.  Teachers  who  are  not  too 
academic  will  find  their  students  responding  to  it  more 
heartily  than  to  any  other  handbook  I  know. 

Contemporary  Portraits.  By  Frank  Harris.  (Mitchell 
Kennerley.)  This  volume  of  calculated  indiscretions  is 
fascinating  reading,  and  valuable  autobiography.  Its 
frankness  is  not  specially  shocking.  How  far  these  papers 
are  imaginary  portraits  it  is  difficult  to  say.  They  aim  to 
convey  faithfully  without  undue  solemnity  Mr.  Harris's 
recollections  of  his  friends  and  acquaintances,  and  if  they 
sacrifice  truth  of  fact  to  the  higher  truth  of  imaginative 
impression,  we  can  scarcely  complain,  for  their  vivacity  is 
more  than  persuasive  in  its  portraiture.  Carlyle,  Renan, 
Whistler,  Wilde,  Davidson,  Richard  Middleton,  Burton, 
Meredith,  Branning,  Swinburne,  Arnold,  De  Maupassant, 
Verlaine,  Fabre,  Maeterlinck,  Rodin,  and  Anatole  France 
successively  pass  before  the  reader.  The  execution  of  Mr. 
Harris's  portrait  is  superb. 

Browning  Studies.  By  Vernon  C.  Harrington.  (Richard 
G.  Badger.) 

The  Greek  Tragic  Poets:  Emendations,  Discussions,  and 
Criticisms  Notes.  By  Joseph  Edward  Harry.  (University 
of  Cincinnati.) 

The  Songs,  Hymns  and  Prayers  of  the  Old  Testament. 
By  Charles  Foster  Kent.  (Charles  Scribner's  Sons.) 

Chaucer  and  His  Poetry.  By  George  L.  Kittridge.  Lec 
tures  Delivered  in  1914,  on  the  Percy  Turnbull  Memorial 
Foundation  in  the  Johns  Hopkins  University.  (Harvard 
University  Press.) 

The  Life  and  Times  of  Tennyson.  By  Thomas  R. 
Lounsbury.  (Yale  University  Press.)  This  exhaustive 
biographical  and  critical  work  upon  which  the  late  Pro 
fessor  Lounsbury  was  engaged  and  which  he  had  prac- 

259 


tically  completed  at  his  death  a  few  months  ago  is  prob 
ably  the  most  complete  study  of  Tennyson's  early  life  and 
work  that  we  have.  Coming  from  a  critic  of  such  veteran 
distinction  at  this  precise  time,  when  the  disposition  to 
minimize,  if  not  ignore,  Tennyson's  claim  as  a  poet  is  be 
coming  more  and  more  marked,  it  has  added  significance, 
and  in  any  case  it  would  be  a  necessary  volume  for  li 
braries. 

Six  French  Poets.  Studies  in  Contemporary  Literature. 
By  Amy  Lowell.  (The  Macmillan  Company.)  Miss  Low 
ell  performs  a  genuine  service  for  American  poetry  by 
reaffirming  at  this  time  the  importance  of  contemporary 
French  poetry.  The  last  quarter  of  a  century  has  seen  in 
France  a  poetic  group,  any  one  of  whom  would  have  en 
titled  his  period  to  assume  a  position  of  high  distinction. 
In  this  volume  of  lectures  on  Emile  Verhaeren,  Albert 
Samain,  Remy  de  Gourmont,  Henri  de  Re"gnier,  Francis 
Jammes,  and  Paul  Fort,  we  are  introduced  persuasively 
enough  to  six  personalities  of  commanding  influence  on 
their  native  literature,  wno  are  probably  destined  through 
the  efforts  of  such  craftsmen  as  Miss  Lowell  to  influence 
ours  as  well.  In  an  easy  conversational  style  she  guides 
the  reader  to  the  most  important  achievement  of  each  poet, 
dwelling  lightly  on  matters  of  objective  fact,  and  pre 
ferring  rather  to  set  examples  of  each  man's  poetry  be 
fore  the  reader  rather  than  to  comment  extensively  on  in 
accessible  sources.  Each  essay  is  preceded  by  a  portrait, 
and  about  one  hundred  and  twenty  poems  are  published 
in  the  original  French  and  in  an  accurate  prose  transla 
tion.  Extensive  bibliographies,  not  only  of  the  works  of 
each  poet,  but  of  books  to  be  consulted  upon  the  subject, 
in  all  modern  languages,  add  to  the  value  of  a  volume 
which  is  an  important  piece  of  literary  pioneering. 

Hermaia.  A  Study  in  Comparative  Esthetics.  By  Colin 
McAlpin.  (E.  P.  Button  &  Co.)  While  this  important 
volume  is  devoted  to  the  whole  field  of  comparative 
esthetics  and  more  especially  to  music,  its  discussion  of  the 
relation  of  poetry  to  nature  as  well  as  to  painting  and 
music  is  of  fundamental  importance  as  a  contribution  to 
the  subject.  Mr.  McAlpin  has  reasoned  his  conclusions 
profoundly  and  imaginatively,  and  the  system  of  esthetics 
which  he  expounds  succeeds  more  fully  than  usual  in  ex 
plaining  the  relation  of  art  and  nature  to  mystical  con 
sciousness. 

260 


John  M.  Synge:  A  Few  Personal  Recollections.  With 
Biographical  Notes.  By  John  Masefield.  (The  Macmil- 
lan  Co.)  Although  this  little  book  is  so  slight,  it  contains 
in  its  few  pages  probably  the  final  personal  word  for  all 
time  on  John  Synge.  Many  books  have  been  written,  and 
many  more  will  be  written,  about  his  elusive  personality, 
but  this  brief  record  of  friendship  is  the  most  real  and 
sympathetic  picture  of  the  man.  As  a  work  of  art  it  ranks 
with  Arthur  Symons'  study  of  Ernest  Dowson. 

James  Shirley,  Dramatist.  A  Biographical  and  Critical 
Study.  By  Arthur  Huntington  Nason.  (Arthur  H. 
Nason.)  In  this  study  of  the  principal  dramatic  poet  of 
the  reign  of  Charles  I.,  Professor  Nason  of  New  York 
University  has  sought  to  trace  Shirley's  development  as  a 
dramatist  through  the  various  stages  of  his  work  from  the 
early  realistic  plays  to  that  ultimate  romantic  period  dur 
ing  which  much  of  his  best  poetry  was  written.  The  criti 
cal  survey  is  preceded  by  a  biography  of  Shirley  which 
aims  to  disentangle  the  confusion  of  fact  and  fancy  which 
has  hitherto  prevailed.  This  carefully  documented  study 
is  a  worthy  contribution  of  American  literary  scholarship, 
not  only  as  an  objective  analysis  of  Shirley's  career,  but 
as  a  sympathetic  criticism  of  poetry. 

Edward  Rowland  Hill:  His  Life  and  Work.  By  William 
Belmont  Parker.  (Houghton  Mifflin  Co.) 

The  Spirit  of  the  American  Revolution  as  Revealed  in 
the  Poetry  of  the  Period.  A  Study  of  American  Patriotic 
Verse  from  1760  to  1783.  By  Samuel  White  Patterson. 
(Richard  G.  Badger.)  This  volume  is  interesting  to  stu 
dents  of  poetry  for  a  reason  apart  from  the  slender  poetic 
merit  of  the  verse  written  during  the  American  Revolu 
tion.  It  serves  as  a  valuable  illustration  of  the  relation 
poetry  bears  to  contemporary  war,  and  a  careful  study  of 
the  volume  will  do  much  to  explain  the  often  chronicled 
fact  that  the  stress  of  national  emotion  seldom  produces 
poetry  of  high  distinction  until  the  heat  of  conflict  is  past 
and  viewed  only  in  retrospect.  Dr.  Patterson's  command  of 
his  material  is  competent,  and  his  volume  fills  a  real  gap 
in  our  literary  history. 

Visions  and  Revisions:  A  Book  of  Literary  Devotions. 
By  John  Cowper  Powys,  (G.  Arnold  Shaw.) 

Poetry.  By  Arthur  Quiller-Couch.  (E.  P.  Dutton  & 
Co.)  Sir  Arthur  Quiller-Couch's  essay  takes  its  place  with 
dignity  in  the  short  series  of  distinguished  apologies  for 

261 


poetry  written  in  English.  It  is  one  of  the  classical  con 
fessions  of  faith  in  poetry  by  a  poet. 

W.  B.  Yeats.  A  Critical  Study.  By  Forrest  Reid. 
(Dodd  Mead  &  Company.)  More  complete,  because  more 
recent,  than  the  study  by  Dr.  Kraus,  this  volume  is  quite 
dispassionate  in  its  sympathy  for  the  work  of  Mr.  Yeats. 
Its  studied  frankness  is  refreshing,  and  Mr.  Reid  has  made 
some  fine  discriminations  in  poetic  values.  The  early  work 
of  Mr.  Yeats,  abandoned  by  him,  is  discussed  with  the  care 
which  it  deserves,  and  one  of  the  chief  services  which  the 
volume  performs  is  to  send  the  reader  back  to  many  early 
works.  The  chapter  entitled  "  Collaboration,"  in  which  the 
influence  of  Lady  Gregory  is  frankly  discussed,  is  prob 
ably  the  most  valuable  in  the  book.  Apart  from  its  sub 
ject,  this  volume  has  a  literary  significance  of  its  own 
higher  even  than  that  of  many  others  in  the  distinguished 
series  to  which  it  belongs. 

Paul  Lawrence  Dunbar.  By  R.  C.  Ransom.  Phila 
delphia. 

Rabindranath  Tagore :  A  Biographical  Study.  By  Ernest 
Rhys.  (The  Macmillan  Co.) 

Rabindranath  Tagore:  The  Man  and  His  Poetry.  By 
Basanta  Koomar  Roy.  With  an  Introduction  by  Hamilton 
W.  Mabie.  (Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.) 

The  Study  of  Shakespeare.  By  Henry  Thew  Stephen- 
son.  (Henry  Holt  and  Company.)  This  compendious 
handbook  by  Professor  Stephenson  of  the  University  of 
Indiana  is  designed  for  use  in  college  classes  and  for  pri 
vate  study.  It  contains  in  succinct  form  the  biographical 
facts  about  Shakespeare,  a  description  of  London  in 
Shakespeare's  day  and  of  the  Elizabethan  playhouse,  brief 
chapters  on  such  subjects  as  Shakespeare's  verse  and 
dramatic  structure,  and  an  analysis  for  students  of  eleven 
representative  plays.  It  aims  to  appeal  to  the  student's 
imagination  by  the  power  of  suggestion,  and  for  its  fresh 
ness  of  treatment  and  individual  outlook  will  be  found  an 
illuminating  companion  for  the  reader  of  Shakespeare. 

A  Check  List  of  First  Editions  of  the  Works  of  Bliss 
Carman.  By  Frederic  Fairchild  Sherman.  New  York  City. 

Shakespeare's  Environment.  By  Mrs.  C.  C.  Slopes.  (G. 
Bell  &  Sons,  Ltd.) 

The  Influence  of  the  Popular  Ballad  on  Wordsworth  and 
Coleridge.  By  Charles  Wharton  Stork.  (Modern  Language 
Association  of  America.) 

262 


Robert  Louis  Stevenson:  A  Critical  Study.  By  Frank 
Swinnerton.  (Mitchell  Kennerley.) 

Some  Textual  Difficulties  in  Shakespeare.  By  Charles  D. 
Stewart.  (Yale  University  Press.)  This  volume  has  al 
ready  earned  the  cordial  praise  of  many  Shakespearean 
students.  It  brings  the  viewpoint  of  a  literary  artist  to 
bear  upon  forty  famous  crucial  passages  in  Shakespeare 
whose  meaning  has  been  held  to  be  insolubly  obscure,  and 
from  internal  evidence  he  offers  persuasive  solutions  of 
them  to  the  reader.  It  is  the  most  distinguished  volume 
of  Shakespearean  criticism  published  for  several  years,  and 
its  alert  interpretation  is  so  keen  that  it  is  lifted  from 
the  plane  of  philological  research  to  the  dignity  of  per 
manent  literary  criticism. 

Maurice  Maeterlinck.  A  Critical  Study.  By  Una  Tay 
lor.  (Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.)  Were  this  merely  an  adequate 
critical  study  of  a  great  imaginative  artist  in  the  drama, 
it  would  claim  a  place  here.  But  it  is  more  than  that. 
It  contains  the  first  careful  estimate  of  Maeterlinck  as  a 
poet,  and  the  reader  of  this  volume  will  be  introduced  to 
Maeterlinck's  lyrics  by  an  artist  in  appreciation.  The  ex 
position  of  Maeterlinck's  philosophy  of  nature  reveals  a 
new  angle  in  the  poet  hitherto  not  much  dwelt  upon,  and 
the  volume  as  a  whole  is  a  sane  estimate  of  the  man  and 
his  work,  which  avoids  the  two  prevalent  attitudes  of  his 
critics  toward  disparagement  on  the  one  hand  and  adulation 
on  the  other. 

Essays  on  Milton.  By  Elbert  N.  S.  Thompson,  Ph.D. 
(Yale  University  Press.)  These  studies  are  written  from 
the  viewpoint  of  a  poet  in  a  style  of  much  literary  charm. 
Critical  rather  than  biographical,  they  aim  to  trace  Mil 
ton's  literary  development  steadily  through  the  various 
stages  of  its  fruition.  They  are  intended  as  a  necessary 
introduction  to  the  serious  reading  of  Milton's  poetry  and 
prose.  A  valuable  feature  of  the  volume  is  the  extensive 
study  of  Milton's  sources  in  "  Paradise  Lost." 

The  Salon  and  English  Letters.  Chapters  on  the  In 
terrelations  of  Literature  and  Society  in  the  Age  o>f 
Johnson.  By  Chauncey  Brewster  Tinker.  (The  Macmil- 
lan  Co.)  The  social  background  of  Dr.  Johnson's  times 
have  their  interest  for  the  student  of  poetry  who  reads 
this  book,  for  the  manners  of  a  time  so  productive  of  in 
tellectual  pleasures  are  fundamentally  interwoven  with  the 
verse  of  the  time.  Dr.  Johnson,  Goldsmith,  and  many 

263 


others  flit  across  these  pages  pleasantly,  and  the  drama  of 
bluestocking  literary  patronage  is  enacted  before  our  eyes. 

Life  and  Writings  of  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson.  By  Arthur 
Turnbull.  (Charles  Scribner's  Sons.) 

Ernest  Dowson,  1888-1897.  Reminiscences,  Unpub 
lished  Letters  and  Marginalia.  By  Victor  Plarr.  (Gomme.) 
Ernest  Dowson  was  a  product  of  and  belonged  to  that 
indefinite  movement  of  English  literature  which  Mr.  Hoi- 
brook  Jackson  has  crystallized  as  the  "  Eighteen-Nine- 
ties."  It  was  a  movement  that  had  a  great  many  vague 
intentions;  it  dealt  chiefly  and  poignantly  in  the  substance 
of  emotions  which  need  not  have  a  very  deep  root  in  the 
commoner  realities  of  life.  Of  the  poets  of  this  movement 
the  soil  of  flowering  was  in  that  now  glamorous  organiza 
tion  known  as  "  The  Rhymers'  Club,"  two  of  whom  the 
fatality  of  death  kissed  as  their  buds  of  genius  were  be 
ginning  to  open  to  a  larger  and  wider  recognition.  Lionel 
Johnson  and  Ernest  Dowson  were  these  two  poets.  John 
son  had  a  good  many  strings  to  his  lyre;  Dowson  but  few, 
but  these  few  he  played  with  incomparable  perfection. 
This  little  memoir  is  exquisite  in  its  writing,  affectionate 
in  retrospect,  charming  in  its  commentary  on  the  habits 
and  characteristics  of  the  poet  who  was  all  sorts  of  ad 
mixtures  of  shyness  and  boldness.  Almost  a  half  of  the 
little  book  is  a  discreet  selection  from  Dowson's  corre 
spondence  to  the  author.  If  they  were  not  the  letters  of 
the  author  of  those  fine,  fragrant  poems  illumined  with 
Latin  simplicity  which  we  have  all  admired,  they  would 
scarcely  attract  the  reader's  interest;  they  form  the  lisping 
of  a  child-spirit  who  was  a  little  bewildered  with  life  and 
who  is  more  or  less  contented  with  its  own  absorption  of  a 
few  dreams.  For  all  who  have  Arthur  Symons's  Memoir  and 
Mr.  R.  H.  Sherard's,  this  one  by  Victor  Plarr  cannot  be  neg 
lected.  It  is  not  that  one  wants  really  to  learn  anything 
new  about  Ernest  Dowson,  but  to  get  a  fuller  flavor  of  the 
mysterious  personality  who  wrote  in  English  and  in  the 
England  of  the  nineteenth  century  with  the  grace,  charm 
and  simplicity  of  Catullus  and  Propertius. 

Rabindranath  Tagore.  The  Man  and  His  Poetry.  By 
Basanta  Koomar  Roy.  (Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.:  $1.25.)  Mr. 
Roy  informs  us  that  it  was  not,  as  we  supposed,  the  re 
ligious  influence  of  Tagore's  poetry  which  made  him  so 
universally  popular  with  his  countrymen,  but  that  it  was 
the  patriotic  inspiration  of  the  verse;  this  in  spite  of  the 

264 


fact  that  his  genius  is  supreme  in  the  mystic  and  religious 
symbolism  of  such  art  as  the  "Gitanjali"  poems.  He  is  a 
sympathetic  and  informative  native  biographer  and  gives 
us  just  enough  of  Bengali  life  and  affairs  to  explain 
Tagore's  art  and  personality;  but  we  are  dissatisfied  that 
he  does  not  go  deeper  and  more  extensively  into  the  in- 
influences  of  that  vague  country  which  produced  Tagore. 
Rabindranath  Tagore.  A  Biographical  Study.  By 
Ernest  Rhys.  (Macmillan  Co.)  Mr.  Rhys  gives  us  a 
good  interpretation  of  Tagore's  spiritual  background,  and 
tells  us  in  little  fragments  something  of  the  poet's  family, 
childhood  and  youth;  but  there  is  no  environment,  no  at 
mosphere  to  make  them  real.  The  study  is  comprehensive 
as  far  as  it  goes  as  an  elementary  interpretation  of 
Tagore's  work  and  Mr.  Rhys'  consummate  skill  as  a  lit 
erary  critic  gives  the  book  the  value  it  possesses. 

Zweig,  Stefan.    Emile   Verhaeren.    Houghton  Mifflin  Co. 


265 


THE  MAGAZINE  SUMMARY 

The  selections  in  the  "  Anthology "  this  year  are  chosen 
from  an  examination  of  over  twenty-five  publications,  in 
cluding  monthlies,  quarterlies,  weeklies,  and  daily  news 
papers.  The  alphabetical  list  of  poets  given  at  the  end  of 
this  volume  represents  the  titles  of  all  the  poems  printed 
in  a  score  of  periodicals  all  over  the  country.  With  the 
poems  taken  from  the  newspapers  there  is  indexed  in  this 
list  five  hundred  and  thirty  poets  and  about  fifteen  hun 
dred  poems.  The  sources  from  which  the  best  poems  are 
selected  are  indicated  in  the  text  of  the  "  Anthology." 

I  am  able  to  give  here  a  complete  summary  of  thirteen 
magazines.  In  the  two  hundred  and  eight  numbers  of 
these  magazines  there  were  published  during  the  twelve 
months  from  October  1914-  to  September  1915  a  total  of 
seven  hundred  and  seventy-two  poems,  of  which  three  hun 
dred  and  ten  were  poems  of  distinction.  The  total  num 
ber  of  poems  printed  in  each  magazine,  and  the  number 
of  the  distinctive  poems  are:  The  Century,  total  62,  36 
of  distinction;  Scribner's,  total  49,  10  of  distinction;  The 
Forum,  total  51,  20  of  distinction;  The  Smart  Set,  total 
131,  29  of  distinction;  Harper's,  total  48,  20  of  distinction; 
Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  total  198,  59  of  distinction; 
The  Bellman,  total  48,  36  of  distinction;  Everybody's,  total 
16,  7  of  distinction;  The  Masses,  total  64,  22  of  distinc 
tion;  The  Outlook,  total  17,  12  of  distinction;  The  Yale 
Review,  total  17,  11  of  distinction;  The  North  American 
Review,  total  22,  11  of  distinction;  Poet  Lore,  total  47,  28 
of  distinction. 

For  obvious  reasons  I  have  taken  the  year  from  Octo 
ber  to  September  instead  as  formerly  from  January  to 
December.  The  advantage  in  doing  so  gives  me  an  op 
portunity  in  making  the  records  more  complete  as  well  as 
bringing  the  publication  of  this  volume  in  mid-autumn. 


266 


ARTICLES  AND  REVIEWS  OF  POETS  AND 
POETRY  PUBLISHED  DURING  1915 

The  articles  in  this  list  are  not  confined  to  the  subjects  of 
'American  poets  or  poetry,  but  cover  such  articles  and 
reviews  that  deal  with  the  subject  in  American  publications. 
While  the  list  is  extensive  it  is  not  claimed  to  be  complete 
since  it  ivas  impossible  to  examine  certain  issues  o-f  some 
papers  and  periodicals  which  was  intended  for  inclusion. 
It  provides,  however,  a  valuable  working  source  of  refer 
ences  for  any  who  wish  to  make  a  critical  study  of  con 
temporary  poetry  either  American  or  European.  In  mak 
ing  the  index  conform  to  the  titles,  especially  to  the  re 
views  in  literary  newspapers,  it  has  been  necessary  for  con 
venience  to  supplement  the  titles  with  names  of  authors  and 
volumes. 

"  A.  E."  Irish  Mystic  and  Economist,  by  E.  A.  Boyd, 
North  American  Review,  August. 

A.  E.,  The  Poetry  of,  by  Llewellyn  Jones,  The  Little  Re 
view,  May. 

A  Genius  Whom  the  War  Made  and  Killed  (Rupert 
Brooke),  by  Joyce  Kilmer,  IV.  Y.  Times  Magazine  Sec 
tion,  September,  12. 

Aiken  and  His  Art,  Conrad,  by  William  Stanley  Braith- 
waite,  Boston  Transcript,  February  20. 

American  Poetry,  by  Dorothea  Lawrence  Mann,  The  Forum, 
February. 

American  Poet,  An  (Richard  Osborne),  by  Oscar  Fay 
Adams,  Boston  Transcript,  March  10. 

America's  Output  of  Poetry  in  1914,  and  the  Thirty  Poems 
of  Distinction,  by  William  Stanley  Braithwaite,  Boston 
Transcript  21,  1914. 

Anon.  Mentioned  for  the  Nobel  Prize,  A  Study  of  "  Hu- 
milis,"  by  Dr.  I.  Goldberg,  Boston  Transcript,  January 
13. 

Another  Genius  Dead  in  War  (Rupert  Brooke),  by  Edward 
J.  O'Brien,  Boston  Transcript,  May  22. 

Apollo  Indicted,  by  Will  Hutchins,  The  Forum,  July. 

Armenia  Finds  Her  Edgar  Allan  Poe:  Arshag  Tchobanian, 
First  Man  of  Genius  to  Interpret  His  Race  in  Terms 
that  have  won  European  Regard,  by  K.  M.  Buss, 
Boston  Transcript,  April  7. 

267 


Aren'ts  of  Poetry,  The,  by  Richard  Burton,  The  Bell 
man,  February  13. 

Arrows  in  the  Gale  (by  Arturo  Giovannitte)  Review  by 
Harriet  Monroe,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse, 
April. 

Author  of  Semitones,  The  (Alfred  Abernethy  Cowles), 
by  William  Stanley  Braithwaite,  Boston  Transcript, 
April  7. 

Belgian  Literary  Revival,  The,  by  William  Aspinwall 
Bradley,  The  Bookman,  February. 

Belgium's  Poet:  Emile  Verhaeren,  by  R.  A.  Scott- James, 
The  Bellman,  April  3. 

Belgium's  Poet  Laureate  (Verhaeren)  by  Benjamin  M. 
Woodbridge,  The  Dial,  September  2. 

Bendt,  William  Rose  (vol.  The  Falconer  of  God),  by 
Dorothea  Lawrence  Mann,  The  Poetry  Journal,  June. 

Benson's  Poems,  Monsignor,  by  Thomas  Walsh,  IV.  Y. 
Times  Review  of  Books,  July  18. 

Bierce,  Personal  Memories  of  Ambrose,  by  Mailey  Mil- 
lard,  The  Bookman,  February. 

"  Big  Things "  in  Poetry,  by  Van  Wyck  Brooks,  The  New 
Republic,  March  20. 

Biography  of  a  Poet,  The  (Edward  Rowland  Sill),  by 
Edwin  F.  Edgett,  Boston  Transcript,  February  20. 

Books  of  Poetry,  The  (vols.  by  John  Gould  Fletcher, 
Lafcadio  Hearn,  Laurence  Binyon),  by  Mitchell  Daw- 
son,  The  Little  Review,  August. 

Borel,  Petrus,  by  Arthur  Symons,  The  Forum,  June. 

Botrel,  Theodore,  The  French  Laureate,  by  Anon.,  N.  T. 
Times  Magazine  Section,  July  18. 

Bridges,  The  Poetry  of  Robert,  by  L.  W.  Miles,  Sewanee 
Review,  June. 

Bronte,  Charlotte,  Unpublished  Poems  Found,  by  A.  C. 
Benson,  N.  Y.  Times  Magazine  Section,  April  18. 

Brooke,  The  Poetry  of  Rupert,  by  St.  John  G.  Ervine, 
North  American  Review,  September. 

Brooke,  Rupert,  A  Postcript,  by  Milton  Bronner,  The 
Bookman,  September. 

Browning,  by  Dublew  Cubed,  IV.  Y.  Times  Review  of  Books, 
September  5. 

Brownings,  New  Light  on  the,  by  William  Stanley  Braith 
waite,  Boston  Transcript,  February  27. 

268 


Browning's  Women  (Ethel  Colburn  Mayne's  "  Browning's 
Heroines  "),  by  Clark  S.  Northup,  The  Dial,  April  1. 

Burns,  Robert,  by  Padraic  Colum,  The  New  Republic, 
January  23. 

Catholic  Living  Poets,  The,  The  Catholic  World,  February. 

Cawein,  Madison,  by  Jessie  B.  Rittenhouse,  IV.  Y.  Times 
Review  of  Books,  January  3. 

Challenge  (vol.  by  Louis  Untermeyer),  by  Dorothea  Law 
rence  Mann,  The  Poetry  Journal,  May. 

Chantecler  of  Rostand,  The,  by  Irene  Sargent,  The  Colon 
nade,  June. 

Chanty-Man  Sings,  The,  by  William  Brown  Meloney, 
Everybody's  Magazine,  August. 

Chaucer  and  Langland,  by  Harriet  Monroe,  Poetry:  A 
Magazine  of  Verse,  September. 

Chiefly  Verse  (vols.  by  Norman  Gale,  Grace  Fallow  Nor 
ton,  Robert  Underwood  Johnson,  Gervaise  Gage,  Wil 
frid  Wilson  Gibson),  by  Richard  Burton,  The  Bell 
man,  January  9. 

Choric  School,  Introduction  to  the,  by  Ezra  Pound,  Others, 
A  Magazine  of  New  Verse,  October. 

Claudel's  East,  Paul,  by  Anon.,  The  New  Republic,  Dt- 
cember  19,  1914. 

Claudel,  The  French  Walt  Whitman,  Paul,  by  K.  M.  Buss, 
Boston  Transcript,  November  18,  1914. 

Colyumist  and  Pote,  by  Howard  Brubaker,  The  New  Re 
public,  February  14. 

Contemporary  Poets,  Some  study  of  Amy  Lowell,  Edgar 
Lee  Masters,  Robert  Frost,  Dana  Burnet,  Conrad 
Aiken,  Vachel  Lindsay,  Arthur  Davison  Ficke,  Edwin 
Arlington  Robinson,  Anna  Hempstead  Branch,  Fannie 
Stearns  Davis  Gifford,  Brian  Hooker,  Olive  Tilford 
Dargan,  James  Oppenheim,  Charles  Hanson  Towne, 
John  Gould  Fletcher,  Alfred  Abernethy  Cowles),  by 
William  Dean  Howells,  in  the  Easy  Chair,  Harper's 
Magazine,  September. 

Contemporary  Poetry  and  the  Universities,  by  Alice  Corbin 
Henderson,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  January. 

Curzon  as  a  Poet,  Lord,  Reedy's  Mirror,  July  20. 

Dante  and  America,  by  Walter  Littlefield,  N.  T.  Times 
Review  of  Books,  May'  9. 

269 


Dargan  as  a  Lyric  Poet,  Mrs.,  by  William  Stanley  Braith- 
waite,  Boston  Transcript,  December  12,  1914. 

de  Gourmont,  Remy,  by  Richard  Aldington,  The  Little 
Review,  May. 

Des  Imagistes:  An  Anthology,  by  Alice  Corbin  Henderson, 
Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  October,  1914. 

Diabolic  in  Poetry,  by  Stephen  Phillips,  The  Bookman,  June. 

Dickinson,  Emily  (vol.  The  Single  Hound),  by  Richard  M. 
Hunt,  The  Poetry  Journal,  May. 

Dowson  the  Mysterious,  by  William  Stanley  Braithwaite, 
Boston  Transcript,  January  9. 

Drake,  Joseph  Rodman,  by  A.  Elwood  Corning,  The  Book 
man,  July. 

Drinkwater,  John,  An  Appreciation,  by  Milton  Bronner, 
The  Bookman,  June. 

Dynasts  on  the  Stage,  The,  by  William  Archer,  The  Nation, 
December  24,  1914. 

Early  Imagist,  An  (Emily  Dickinson),  by  Elizabeth  Shepley 
Sergeant,  The  New  Republic,  August  14. 

Eighteenth-Century  Poetry,  by  H.  A.  Burd,  Sewanee  Re 
view,  June. 

Elizabethan  Tragic  Technique  (vol.  Evolution  of  Technique 
in  Elizabethan  Tragedy,  by  Harriet  Ely  Fausler, 
Ph.  D.),  by  Garland  Greever,  The  Dial,  May  13. 

Emerson,  a  Mystic  who  Lives  Again  in  His  Journals,  by 
Warren  Barton  Blake,  The  Forum,  December,  1914. 

English  Literature  in  France,  by  Emile  Legouis,  The  Yale 
Review,  April. 

English  Poets  of  the  Hour  (vols.  by  John  Masefield,  Wil 
frid  Wilson  Gibson,  W.  J.  Dawson,  Alfred  Noyes), 
by  William  Stanley  Braithwaite,  Boston  Transcript, 
December  5,  1914. 

Falconer  of  God,  The   (William  Rose  Benet),  by  Thomas 

Walsh,  N.  Y.  Times  Review  o<f  Books,  January  3. 
Fantastic  Solutions  of  Some  Shakespearean  Cruxes.     Some 

Textual    Difficulties    in    Shakespeare,    by    Charles    D. 

Stewart),     by     Samuel     A.     Tannenbaum,     The     Dial, 

April  15. 
Ficke's  Sonnets,  Mr.,  by  Floyd  Dell,  N.  Y.  Times  Review  of 

Books,  February  21. 
Five   Women   and   the   Muse    (vols.   by   Corinne   Roosevelt 

Robinson,  Amelia  Josephine  Burr,  Amy  Lowell,  Har- 

270 


riet  Monroe,  Agnes  Lee),  by  William  Stanley  Braith- 
waite,  Boston  Transcript,  November  28,  1914. 

Fletcher's  Verse,  Mr.,  by  Amy  Lowell,  The  New  Republic, 
May  15. 

Folk-Songs  of  Greece  Under  the  Turk,  by  Perikles  Mellon, 
with  Metrical  Versions  by  Edith  M.  Thomas,  Poet 
Lore,  New  Year's  Number,  1915. 

Fort,  The  Poetry  of  Paul,  by  Richard  Aldington,  The  Lit 
tle  Review,  May. 

French  Poets  and  the  War,  by  Remy  de  Gourmont,  trans 
lated  by  Richard  Aldington,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of 
Verse,  January. 

From  Kilmer  to  Kabir,  by  Richard  Burton,  The  Bellman, 
May  8. 

Frost,  Robert,  by  Edward  Garnett,  Atlantic  Monthly, 
August. 

Frost,  Thoughts  on  Robert,  by  Eunice  Tietjens,  The  Los 
Angeles  Graphic,  August  28. 

Frost,  Robert,  New  American  Poet,  by  William  Stanley 
Braithwaite,  Boston  Transcript,  May  8. 

Frost's  "  North  of  Boston,"  Robert,  by  Louis  Untermeyer, 
Chicago  Evening  Post,  April  16. 

Genteel  American  Poetry,  by  George  Santayana,  The  New 

Republic,  May  28. 
German  Mind  in  a  Gentler  Mood,  The,  Women  Poets  who 

Leave   War    Untouched    (Erika    Rheinsch,   Ina    Seidel, 

Use  Reicke,  Anonymous),  by  Dr.  I.  Goldberg,  Boston 

Transcript,  April   19. 
Giovannitti,    Arturo,    by    Vittorio   Racca,    The    Colonnade, 

March. 
Giovannitti,    Poet    with    a   Wop,    by    Kenneth    Macgowan, 

The  Forum,  October,  1914. 
Give  Him  Room,  A  Plea  for  the  Poet,  by  Harriet  Monroe, 

Poetry:  A   Magazine   of  Verse,  May. 
Goethe  and  German  Egotism,  by  George  Santayana,   The 

New  Republic,  January  2. 
Growth  of  the  Classical  in  Wordsworth's  Poetry,  by  James 

W.  Tupper,  Sewanee  Review,  February. 

Hardy's  "  Dynasts "  Staged,  by  Rebecca  West,   The  New 

Republic,  December  26,   1914. 
Hardy,  Poet-Novelist,  Thomas,  by  Edwin  F.  Edgett,  Boston 

Transcript,  December  30,  1914. 

271 


Hardy,  Thomas  (vol.  Satires  of  Circumstances,  Lyrics  and 
Reveries,  with  Miscellaneous  Pieces),  by  Harriet  Mon 
roe,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  February. 

Homely  Pegasus,  A  (vol.  by  Joyce  Kilmer),  by  Louis 
Untermeyer,  Chicago  Evening  Post,  January  15. 

Hodgson,  The  Poems  of  Ralph,  by  William  Stanley  Braith 
waite,  Boston  Transcript,  May  5. 

Hooker's  Poetry,  Brian  (with  vols.  by  James  Stephens, 
fimile  Verhaeren,  O.  R.  Howard  Thompson,  Albert 
Berry,  Stephen  Phillips),  by  M.  A.  Mortland,  The 
Bellman,  May  29. 

"  Humilis,"  The  Art  of,  by  Maurice  Saint-Chamarand,  Poet 
Lore;  Winter  Number,  1914. 

Imagism:  Another  View,  by  William  Stanley  Braithwaite, 
The  New  Republic,  June  12. 

Imagism,  Limits  to,  by  Conrad  Aiken,  The  New  Republic, 
June  26. 

Imagism  or  Myopia  (vol.  Some  Imagist  Poets:  An  Anthol 
ogy),  by  Conrad  Aiken,  The  Poetry  Journal,  July. 

Imagism,  The  Place  of,  by  Conrad  Aiken,  The  New  Re 
public,  May  22. 

Imagist,  A  St.  Louis,  by  William  Marion  Reedy,  Reedy't 
Mirror,  April  23. 

Imagists  and  Their  Poetry,  Pioneer  Workers  in  the  Latest 
Artistic  Cult,  by  William  Stanley  Braithwaite,  Boston 
Transcript,  April  21. 

Imagists  of  To-day  and  Notes  on  Poetry,  by  Eunice 
Tietjens,  The  Los  Angeles  Graphic,  July  31. 

Immigrant  Idealized,  The  (vol.  by  Witter  Bynner),  by 
William  Stanley  Braithwaite,  Boston  Transcript,  June 
19. 

In  the  Footsteps  of  Omar  Khayyam,  by  J.  P.  Collins,  Bos 
ton  Transcript,  May  19. 

Inspiration  of  a  Poet,  The,  by  Vachel  Lindsay,  Boston 
Transcript,  February  6. 

Irish  Literary  Movement,  The,  by  Padraic  Colum,  The 
Forum,  January. 

Irish  Poets  and  Fairies,  by  Eunice  Tietjens,  Los  Angeles 
Graphic,  September  11. 

Is  Poetry  Set  Free?  by  Edward  J.  O'Brien,  The  Poetry 
Journal,  May. 

It's  Inner  Meaning  (of  Imagism),  by  Harriet  Monroe, 
Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  September. 

272 


Johnson,  Lionel,  by  Edward  J.  O'Brien,  Poet  Lore,  Summer 

Number,  1915. 
Johnson,  Lionel,  by  T.   K.  Whipple,  Mid-West  Magazine, 

February. 
Jolly    Beggars,   The,   by   William   Marion    Reedy,   Reedy's 

Mirror,  January  29. 

Kernan,    W.    H.,    An    Appreciation,    by    Harris    Dickson, 

The   Bookman,  January. 
Kilmer,    The    Poetry    of    Joyce,    by    Thomas    Walsh,    The 

Catholic   World,  December,   1914. 

Laforgue,  Jules,  by  James  Huneker,  North  American  Re 
view,  July. 
Life  and  Edgar  Lee  Masters,  by  Eunice  Tietjens,  The  Los 

Angeles  Graphic,  July  3. 
Lindsay  Vachel,  by  Hellen  Bullis,  IV.  Y.  Times  Review  of 

Books,  April  11. 
Lindsay,    Vachel,    A    Lincoln    Turned    Poet,    by    William 

Stanley   Braithwaite,  Boston  Transcript,  February   13. 
Literary  Impulse  of  Modern  Greece,  The,  by  Aristides  E. 

Phoutrides,  Poet  Lore,  New  Year's  Number,  1915. 
Literature  of  the  Belgiums,  The,  by  Charles  C.  Clarke,  The 

Yale  Review,  January. 
Listener,  The   (William  Stanley  Braithwaite,  Olive  Tilford 

Dargam),  by  Edward  H.  Clement,  Boston  Transcript, 

November  25,  1914. 
Longfellows  of  Brazil  and  Argentina,  by  Dr.  I.  Goldberg, 

Boston  Transcript,  October  21. 
Lowell,   Amy    (vol.    Sword   Blades   and   Poppy   Seed),  by 

Richard  M.  Hunt,  The  Poetry  Journal,  June. 
Lowell's  Discovery,  Miss,  Polyphonic  Prose,  by  John  Gould 

Fletcher,  Poetry:  A   Magazine  of  Verse,  April. 
Lowell,  On  Our  Coming  Shelleys,  by  William  Stanley  Braith 
waite,  Boston  Transcript,  June  2. 
Lowell    (vol.   Sword   Blades   and  Poppy   Seed),  by   Louis 

Untermeyer,  Chicago  Evening  Post,  July  9. 
Lutanists  of  Midsummer,  The, 

I.  (vols.  by  George  Cronyn,  Alice  Wilson,  Horace 
Holley,  Vance  Thompson),  by  William  Stanley 
Braithwaite,  Boston  Transcript,  July  21. 
II.  (vols.  by  Brian  Hooker,  James  Stephens,  Stephen 
Phillips,  Daniel  Sargent),  by  William  Stanley 
Braithwaite,  Boston  Transcript,  July  28. 

273 


III.  (vols.  by  Laurence  Binyon,  L.  Pierce  Clark,  Wil 

liam  Gary  Sanger,  Jr.,  Fuller  Miller,  C.  Victor 
Stahl,  Mary  Artemisia  Kathbury,  Temple 
Oliver),  by  William  Stanley  Braithwaite,  Bos 
ton  Transcript,  August  4. 

IV.  Edwin   Arlington  Robinson,   by  William   Stanley 

Braithwaite,  Boston  Transcript,  August  12. 
V.  (vols.  by  John  Russell  Hayes,  Shaemas  O  Sheel), 
by  William  Stanley  Braithwaite,  Boston  Tran 
script,  August  18. 

VI.  (vols.  by  Percy  MacKaye,  Clinton  Scollard),  by 
William  Stanley  Braithwaite,  Boston  Tran 
script,  August  24. 

VII.  (vols.  by  Morris  Rosenfeld,  John  Curtis  Under 
wood,  Gertrude  McGiffert),  by  William  Stanley 
Braithwaite,  Boston  Transcript,  September  1. 

Lyric  Poetry  in  Germany  from  War  to  War, 

I.  by  Louise  Mallinckrodt,  The  Colonnade,  December, 

1914. 

II.  January. 
III.  April. 

Magazine  Poetry  on  the  Upgrade,  The  Los  Angeles  Graphic, 

December  26,   1914. 
Magic  Merchandise  (vol.  by  William  Rose  Benet),  by  Louis 

Untermeyer,  Chicago  Evening  Post,  December  11,  1914. 
Mantle    of    Eugene    Field,    The,    by    William    Trowbridge 

Larned,  The  Bookman,  March. 
Marinetti,  An  Appreciation  of,  by  Anne  Simon,  Poet  Lore, 

Autumn  Number,  1914. 
Markham,    Edwin     (vol.    The    Shoes    of    Happiness),    by 

Blanche    Shoemaker    Wagstaff,    The    Poetry    Journal, 

July. 
Markham's    New    Book    of    Verse,    Edwin,    Anon.    N.    Y. 

Times  Book  Review,  June  20. 
Masters,  Edgar   Lee,  by  William  Marion  Reedy,  Reedy's 

Mirror,  April  23. 
Matter    with    the    Poets,    The,    Robert    Haven    Schauffler, 

North  American  Review,  December,  1914. 
Medieval    Boy,   The,  by  L.   F.   Sulzmann,   Reedy's  Mirror, 

December  18,  1914. 
Metrical    Freedom    and   the   Contemporary   Poet    (vols.   by 

Arthur  Stringer,  Amy  Lowell,  Harriet  Monroe,  George 

274 


Sterling),  by  Arthur  Davison  Ficke,  The  Dial,  Janu 
ary  1. 

Migration  of  Poets,  A,  by  Nathan  Haskell  Dole,  The  Bell 
man,  April  24. 

Milton  Once  More,  by  Stephen  Phillips,  The  Bellman, 
June  5. 

Modern  Epic  of  War,  A  (Hardy's  "Dynasts"),  by  Ellen 
Fitzgerald,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  March. 

Modern  German  Poetry,  I.  II.,  by  Reginald  H.  Wilenski, 
Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  January  and  February. 

"  Modern  "  Poetry,  by  Lyman  Bryson,  The  Colonnade,  Sep 
tember. 

Modern  Verse:  A  Conjecture,  by  Stephen  Phillips,  The 
Bellman,  July  31. 

Mona  Back  to  Fairyland,  From,  by  Philip  Greeley  Clapp, 
Boston  Transcript,  March  13. 

Monroe's  "You  and  I,"  Miss,  by  Edgar  Lee  Masters, 
Reedy's  Mirror,  January  22. 

Mistral,  Frederic,  by  Elizabeth  Shepley  Sergeant,  The  Cen 
tury  Magazine,  July. 

Nationalism  in  Art,  by  Amy  Lowell,  Poetry:  A  Magazine 

of   Verse,  October,  1914. 
Neglected   English   Poet  on   the    Battle   of.  Ostend,   A.   by 

Christian  Gauss,   The  Nation,  November  5. 
Negro-Minstrelsy,  by  Brander  Matthews,  Scribner's  Maga 
zine,  June. 
New  Hellenism  of  Oscar  Wilde,  The,  by  William  Chislett, 

Jr.,  Sewanee  Review,  August. 
New  Found  Poem  of  Oliver  Goldsmith,  A,  by  Walter  Jer- 

rold,  The  Bookman,  November,  1914. 
New  Freedom  in  Verse,  The,  William  Aspenwall  Bradley, 

The  Bookman,  April. 
New   Poems   by   the   Brownings,   by   Richard   Burton,    The 

Bellman,  April  3. 

New  Poetry,  The,  by  Horace  Holley,  The  Forum,  May. 
New    Poetry,    The,    by    William    Aspenwall    Bradley,    The 

Bookman,  October,  1914. 
"New"    Poetry,    The,— The   Case    for   the   Defendant,   by 

Louis    Untermeyer,   Chicago   Evening   Post,   November 

13,  1914. 
New  Poets,  The,  by  Arthur  Christopher  Benson,  The  Cen* 

tury   Magazine,  March. 

275 


New  Verse  (vols.  by  Maurice  Maeterlinck,  Conrad  Aiken, 

Percy   MacKaye,   Cale   Young   Rice),   by   Floyd   Dell, 

The  New  Republic,  April  17. 
North  of  Boston  (Poems  by  Robert  Frost),  by  Amy  Lowell, 

The  New  Republic,  February  20. 
North  of  Boston   (Poems  by  Robert  Frost),  by  Jessie  B. 

Rittenhouse,  N.  Y.  Times  Review  of  Books,  May  16. 
Note  to  Balaustion's  Euripides,  by  Helen  Archibald  Clark, 

Poet  Lore,  New  Year's  Number,  1915. 
Notes  for  a  Review  of  "  The  Spoon  River  Anthology,"  by 

Carl  Sandburg,  The  Little  Review,  May. 
Noyes,  Alfred,  See  a  Renascence,  by  Joyce  Kilmer,  N.  Y. 

Times  Magazine  Section,  March  28. 
Noyes,  The  Poetry  of  Alfred,  by  John  Owen  Beaty,  South 

Atlantic  Quarterly,  April. 

Old  Question,  The,  What  is  Poetry?  by  Richard  Burton, 

The  Bellman,  December  26,  1914. 
Old    Warwickshire    Morris    Dances    and    Songs,    by    O.    L. 

Hatcher,  The  Nation,  October,  1914. 
On  Behalf  of  a  Book  of  Poems,  by  Floyd  Dell,  The  New 

Republic,  April  24. 
One   Whom  the   Gods   Loved    (Life  of  Edward   Rowland 

Sill,  W.  B.  Parker),  by  Percy  F.   Bicknell,  The  Dial, 

March  4. 
Open    Water    by    Arthur    Stringer,    by    Harriet    Monroe, 

Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  February. 
Oppenheim,  The  Poetry  of  James,  by  Louis   Untermeyer, 

Chicago  Evening  Post,  October  23,  1914. 
Originality  in  Poetry,   by  Stephen  Phillips,   The  Interna 
tional,  December,  1914. 
Our  Contemporaries,  by  Alice  Corbin  Henderson,  Poetry: 

A  Magazine  of  Verse,  January. 
Our  Humor  is  Not  Anglo-Saxon,  Interview  with  Thomas  A. 

Daly,  by  Joyce  Kilmer,  N.  Y.  Times  Magazine  Section, 

August  15. 
Ovid  Among  the  Goths,  by  Gamaliel  Bradford,  The   Yale 

Review,  April. 

Passing  of  "Poetic  License,"  by  Eunice  Tietjens,  The  Los 

Angeles  Graphic,  August  28. 
Peguy,  Charles, —  French  Poet  and  Victim  of  the  War,  by 

S.  D.,  The  Nation,  November  12,  1914. 
Phrasal  Art  of  Japanese  Poetry,  The,  by  Asa  Anderson 

Patrick,  The  Colonnade,  August. 

276 


Piano  and  Imagism,  Margaret  C.  Anderson,  The  Little  Re 
view,  August. 

Poems  of  the  Far  and  Near  (Translations  of  Catullus,  by 
Mary  Stewart,  Maurice  Maeterlinck),  by  Nathan  Has- 
kell  Dole,  Boston  Transcript,  August  18. 

Poems  of  the  Present  Hour  (voL  by  Percy  MacKaye),  by 
William  Stanley  Braithwaite,  Boston  Transcript,  Janu 
ary  2. 

Poet  in  the  Desert,  The  (Charles  E.  S.  Wood),  by  Harriet 
Monroe,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  September. 

Poet  of  the  Elder  France,  A,  by  S.  D.,  The  Nation,  October 
15,  1914. 

Poet  of  New  England,  A  (Robert  Frost),  by  William 
Stanley  Braithwaite,  Boston  Transcript,  April  28. 

Poet  of  the  Belgians,  A  (fimile  Verhaeren),  by  S.  D.,  The 
Nation,  December  24,  1914. 

Poet  Laureate:  Ina  I.  Colbrith,  The  Los  Angeles  Graphic, 
July  10. 

Poet  Laureate  for  America,  The  Los  Angeles  Graphic, 
October  19,  1914. 

Poet  Who  Came  East,  A  (Edwin  Markham),  by  William 
Stanley  Braithwaite,  Boston  Transcript. 

Poetic  Document  (Edgar  Lee  Masters'  "Spoon  River 
Anthology"),  Richard  Burton,  The  Bellman,  July  10. 

Poetic  Theme  in  the  Modern  Pageant,  The,  by  Anne  Throop 
Craig,  The  Forum,  September. 

Poetry,  A  Definition,  by  Lloyd  R.  Morris,  N.  Y.  Times 
Review  of  Books,  January  31. 

Poetry  and  the  Panama-Pacific,  by  Eunice  Tietjens,  The 
Little  Review,  May. 

Poetry  and  the  "  People,"  by  Richard  M.  Hunt,  The  Poetry 
Journal,  June. 

Poetry  Bookshop,  by  Amy  Lowell,  The  Little  Review,  May. 

Poetry  for  Poetry's  Sake,  by  Ferris  Greenslet,  The  New 
Republic,  January  30. 

Poetry  in  the  Bellman,  The  Bellman,  December  12,  1914. 

Poets,  With  the  Modern,  by  Eunice  Tietjens,  The  Los  An 
geles  Graphic,  June  19. 

Poets,  With  the  Modern  (study  of  Arthur  Davison  Ficke), 
by  Eunice  Tietjens,  The  Graphic,  August  14. 

Poets  of  America,  Three  (vols.  by  Joyce  Kilmer,  Vachel 
Lindsay,  James  Oppenheim),  by  William  Stanley 
Braithwaite,  Boston  Transcript,  December  19,  1914. 


277 


Poets  of  America,  Three  (vols.  by  Harry  Kemp,  Henry  van 

Dyke,   Arthur   Stringer),   by  William   Stanley   Braith- 

waite,  Boston  Transcript,  January  16. 
Poets    of    Belgium,    The,    by    Arthur    Salmon,    The    Dial, 

February  1. 
Poets  of  To-day,  Twenty-Eight  Volumes  of  Recent  Verse, 

by  William  Stanley  Braithwaite,  Boston  Transcript. 
Poets,   Two   American    (vols.   by  Witter   Bynner,   William 

Rose  Benet),  by  William  Stanley  Braithwaite,  Boston 

Transcript. 

Ride  Home,  The  (vol.  by  Florence  Wilkinson  Evans),  by 
Anon.,  N.  Y.  Times  Review  of  Books,  December  27, 
1914. 

Real  Down-to-Date  Poetry,  The  Los  Angeles  Graphic,  June 
26. 

Recent  Poetry  (vols.  Some  Imagist  Poets,  John  Gould 
Fletcher,  Horace  Holley,  Edgar  Lee  Masters,  Thomas 
Hardy,  Henry  W.  Binns,  Arthur  Davison  Ficke),  by 
Raymond  M.  Alden,  The  Dial,  June  24. 

Restringing  the  Unbroken  French  Lyre  (Remy  de  Gour- 
mont,  Emile  Verhaeren,  Albert  Samain,  Paul  Fort, 
Francis  Jammes),  by  K.  M.  Buss,  Boston  Transcript, 
May  26. 

Retrospect  — 1914  (vol.  W.  S.  Braithwaite's  "Anthology 
of  Magazine  Verse  for  1914,  and  Year  Book  of  Ameri 
can  Poetry"),  by  Louis  Untermeyer,  Chicago  Evening 
Post,  February  19. 

Rhymes,  Ragtime  and  Religion  (vol.  Vachel  Lindsay's 
"The  Congo"),  by  Louis  Untermeyer,  Chicago  Even 
ing  Post,  November  27,  1914. 

Robinson,  Edwin  Arlington,  by  Lincoln  MacVeagh,  The 
New  Republic,  April  10. 

Rostand,  Romanticist,  Edmond,  by  Charlton  Andrews,  The 
Colonnade,  June. 

Shadow  of  Mtna,  The,  (vol.  by  Louis  V.  Ledoux),  by 
Joyce  Kilmer,  2V.  Y.  Times  Review  of  Books,  December 
13,  1914. 

Shadow  of  Parnassus,  In  the:  A  Critical  Anthology  of 
Contemporary  American  Poetry: 

First  Article:  (The  Art  of  the  Poet),  by  Zoe 
Akins,  Reedy's  Mirror,  Febru 
ary  19. 

278 


Second  Article:  (Henry  van  Dyke,  George  Ster 
ling,  John  Hall  Wheelock, 
Amelia  Josephine  Burr,  An 
gela  Morgan),  by  Zoe  Akins, 
Reedy's  Mirror,  February  26. 
Third  Article:  (W.  J.  Dawson,  Arthur  String 
er,  Walter  Malone,  Frederick 
Brush,  Joyce  Kilmer),  by  Zoe 
Akins,  Reedy's  Mirror,  March 
5. 

Fourth  Article:    (Sara    Teasdale,    Arthur    Davi- 
son     Ficke,     Witter     Bynner, 
Amy  Lowell),   by   Zoe   Akins, 
Reedy's    Mirror,    March    12. 
Fifth  Article:    (Amy      Lowell,      Ezra      Pound, 
Louis    How),    by    Zoe    Akins, 
Reedy'a  Mirror,  March  19. 
Sixth   Article:    (Vachel  Lindsay),  by  Zoe  Akins, 

Reedy'a  Mirror,  March  26. 

Seventh  Article:  (Margaret  Widdemer,  Percy 
MacKaye),  by  Zoe  Akins, 
Reedy'a  Mirror,  April  2. 

Eighth  Article:  (Henry  Herbert  Knibbs,  Vol- 
tairine  de  Oleyre,  Louis  Un- 
termeyer),  by  Zoe  Akins, 
Reedy'a  Mirror,  April  9. 

Ninth  Article:  (Richard  Le  Gallienne,  Her 
mann  Hagedorn,  Harriet 
Monroe),  by  Zoe  Akins, 
Reedy'a  Mirror,  April  16. 

Tenth  Article:  (Margaret  Root  Garvin,  Olive 
Tilford  Dargan,  Orrick  Johns), 
by  Zoe  Akins,  Reedy'a  Mirror, 
April  30. 

Eleventh  Article:  (Fannie  Stearns  Davis  Gifford, 
Robert  Frost,  Edgar  Lee 
Masters),  by  Zoe  Akins, 
Reedy's  Mirror,  May  7. 

Twelfth  Article:  (William  Rose  Benet),  by  Zoe 
Akins,  Reedy's  Mirror,  May 
14. 

Thirteenth  Article:    (George      Edward      Woodberry, 
Arturo    Giovannitte),    by    Zoe 
Akins,    Reedy's    Mirror,    May 
21. 
279 


(George  Sylvester  Viereck, 
Conrad  Aiken),  by  Zoe  Akins, 
Reedy's  Mirror,  May  28. 

(Willa  Sibert  Gather,  Edith  M. 
Thomas),  by  Zoe  Akins, 
Reedy's  Mirror,  June  4. 

(Charles  Erskine  Scott  Wood, 
Edwin  Arlington  Robinson, 
Lizette  Woodworth  Reese),  by 
Zoe  Akins,  Reedy's  Mirror, 
June  11. 

(Edwin  Markham,  Grace  Fal 
low  Norton,  Helen  Hay  Whit 
ney),  by  Zoe  Akins,  Reedy's 
Mirror,  June  25. 

(Charles  Hanson  Towne,  Shae- 
.mas  O  Sheel),  by  Zoe  Akins, 
Reedy's  Mirror,  July  2. 

(Cale  Young  Rice,  Mora  May 
French),  by  Zoe  Akins, 
Reedy's  Mirror,  July  9. 

(James  Oppenheim,  John  Myers 
O'Hara,  C.  Constant  Louns- 
berry),  by  Zoe  Akins,  Reedy's 
Mirror,  July  30. 

(Bliss  Carman,  Muriel  Rice, 
Celia  Harris,  Brian  Hooker), 
by  Zoe  Akins,  Reedy's  Mirror, 
August  6. 

(Louise  Imogen  Guiney,  Ezra 
Pound,  Florence  Wilkinson 
Evans),  by  Zoe  Akins,  Reedy's 
Mirror,  August  13. 

Shadowy  Mr.  Yeats,  The,  by  B.  Russell  Herts,  The  Forum, 
December,  1914. 

Shakespeare's  America,  In,  by  William  Aspenwall  Bradley, 
Harper's  Magazine,  August. 

Shakespeare  and  the  Malt,  Documentary  Evidence  Upon 
His  Life  at  Stratford,  by  Sidney  Lee,  Boston  Tran 
script,  June  12. 

Shakespeare's  Environment,  by  Edwin  F.  Edgett,  Boston 
Transcript,  December  12,  1914. 

Shakespearean  Garden,  A,  by  Speirs  Mosher,  The  Bellman, 
January  23. 

280 


Fourteenth  Article: 
Fifteenth  Article: 
Sixteenth  Article: 

Seventeenth  Article : 

Eighteenth   Article: 

Nineteenth    Article : 

Twentieth    Article: 

Twenty-first   Article : 
Twenty-second  Article: 


Shakespeare:  Made  in  America,  by  George  Santayana,  The 

New  Republic,  February  27. 
Shakespearean    Motive,    The,    Harriet   Monroe,   Poetry:    A 

Magazine  of  Verge,  April. 
Sharing,   The    (by   Agnes    Lee,   "The   Congo,"   by   Vachel 

Lindsay),    by    Alice    Corbin    Henderson,    Poetry:    A 

Magazine   of   Verse,  March. 
Sharp,  as  a  Pair  of  Twins,  William,  by  J.  P.  Collins,  Boston 

Transcript,  January  9. 
Shoes  of  Happiness,  The    (vol.  by  Edwin  Markham),  by 

Harriet  Monroe,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of   Verse,  Sep 
tember. 
Some  New  Verse  (vols.  by  T.  Sturge  Moore,  Norman  Gale, 

Coningsby    Dawson,    Gerald    Gould,    Georgian    Poetry, 

1911-12,  Modern  Anglo-Irish  Verse),  by  O.  W.  Firkins, 

The  Nation,  December  3,  1914. 
Some   Recent   Southern  Verse,   by   H.    Houston   Peckham, 

South  Atlantic  Quarterly,  April. 
"  Song-Ballets  and  Devil's  Ditties,"  by  William  Aspenwall 

Bradley,  Harper's  Magazine,  May. 
Sonnets  Made  in  America,  by  Homer  E.  Woodbridge,  The 

New  Republic,  April  24. 
Sonnets   of   a    Portrait    Painter    (vol.   by   Arthur   Davison 

Ficke),  by   Harriet   Monroe,   Poetry:  A    Magazine   of 

Verse,  April. 
Southey  as  a  Poet  and  Historian,  by  Thomas  R.  Lounsbury, 

The   Yale  Review,  January. 
Spirit   of  Japanese   Poetry,   by   Eunice   Tietjens,   The  Los 

Angeles   Graphic,  July    17. 
Spoon   River,  The  Soul  of   (vol.  by  Edgar  Lee   Masters), 

by  William  Stanley  Braithwaite,  Boston  Transcript. 
Spoon   River,   A   Human   Anthology   of,   by   Anon.,   IV.    T. 

Times  Review  of  Books,  July  18. 
Spoon    River,    The    Writer    of,    William    Marion    Reedy, 

Reedy's  Mirror,  November  20,  1914. 

Spoon    River   and   Greece,   Source   of   Mr.   Masters'   "  An 
thology  "  in  Ancient  Times,  by  Nathan   Haskell  Dole, 

Boston   Transcript. 
Spoon    River   People,   by   Floyd  Dell,   The   New  Republic, 

April  17. 
Spoon   River  Poet   Called   Great,  by   Anon.,   IV.    T.    Times 

Magazine  Section,  April  4. 
"  Spoon    River "    Man    Takes    Our    Measure,    by    William 

Stanley  Braithwaite,  Boston  Transcript,  August  21. 

281 


Spring  and  Summer  Review:  I.  (vols.  by  Olive  Tilford 
Dargan,  Fannie  Stearns  Davis  Gifford,  Amelia 
Josephine  Burr),  by  Louis  Untermeyer,  Chicago  Even 
ing  Post,  July  23. 

II.  (vols.  by  Laurence  Binyon,  James  Stephens,  Some 
Imagist  Poets:  An  Anthology,  Brian  Hooker),  by 
Louis  Untermeyer,  Chicago  Evening  Post,  July  30. 
III.  (vols.  by  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson,  Paul  Claudel, 
Margaret  Widdemer,  Edwin  Markham),  by  Louis  Un 
termeyer,  Chicago  Evening  Post,  August  27. 

Story  of  J.  G.  N.  called  "  Humilis,"  by  Comte  de  Lar- 
mandie,  Poet  Lore,  Winter  Number,  1914. 

Stringer's  "  Open  Water,"  Arthur,  by  Louis  Untermeyer, 
Chicago  Evening  Post,  April  9. 

Studies  in  Lucretius  and  Tibullus,  by  L.  P.  Chamberlayne, 
Sewanee  Review,  June. 

Sunset  of  Riley's  Career  Still  Far  Distant  (James  Whit- 
comb  Riley),  by  Anon.,  N.  Y.  Times  Magazine  Section, 
September  12. 

Tagore:  An  Oriental  Estimate,  by  Basanta  Koomar,  The 
Bookman,  March. 

Tagore:  and  a  Mystic  (Songs  of  Kabir),  by  Helen  Bullis, 
N.  Y.  Times  Review  of  Books,  February. 

Tagore,  India's  Famous  Poet  and  Prophet,  by  Anon.,  IV.  Y. 
Times  Review  of  Books,  July  25. 

Tagore:  Poet  and  Mystic,  by  Louis  I.  Bredold,  The  Dial, 
June  10. 

Taylor,  Bayard,  by  Laura  Stedman,  North  American  Re 
view,  June. 

Thompson,  Francis,  by  Gladys  Wolcott  Barnes,  Poet  Lore, 
Spring  Number,  1915. 

Tragic  Art  of  Ballad  Poetry,  by  E.  G.  Cox,  Sewanee  Re 
view,  July. 

Tress  and  Other  Poems  (vol.  by  Joyce  Kilmer),  by  Anon., 
N.  Y.  Times  Review  of  Books,  December  20,  1914. 

Troubadours  A-Twitter,  The,  by  H.  L.  Mencken,  The 
Smart  Set,  May. 

Twentieth  Century  Poets  (vols.  Georgian  Poetry,  1911- 
12,  John  Masefield,  Rhys  Carpenter,  Patrick  MacGill, 
Broadsheet  Ballads,  Gervaise  Gage),  by  Helen  Bullis, 
N.  Y.  Times  Book  Review,  January  31. 

Yalue  of  Poetry,  The,  by  Madison  Cawein,  The  Poetry 
Journal,  July. 

282 


Veddar  as  a  Poet,  Elihu,  by  Anon.,  Boston  Transcript,  De 
cember  9,  1914. 

Vedder,  Elihu,  by  Hildegarde  Hawthorne,  IV.  F.  Times 
Review  of  Books,  February,  1914. 

Verhaeren,  by  Elizabeth  Shepley  Sergeant,  The  New  Re 
public,  May  1. 

Verhaeren  (Life  of,  by  Stefan  Zweig),  by  Anon.,  N.  T. 
Times  Review  of  Books,  January  3. 

Verhaeren:  Poet  of  Industrial  Evolution,  by  Anon.,  The 
Unpopular  Review,  July. 

Verhaeren,  Emile,  the  Other  Maeterlinck,  by  K.  M.  Buss, 
Boston  Transcript,  December  9., 

Verlaine,  The  Poetry  of  Paul,  by  Guy  E.  Snavely,  The 
Colonnade,  April. 

Vers  Libre  and  Advertisements,  by  John  Gould  Fletcher, 
The  Little  Review,  May. 

Verse  in  Congress,  by  Herbert  J.  Seligman,  The  New  Re 
public,  January  30. 

War  and  Poetry,  by  William  Morton  Payne,  The  Dial, 
March  4. 

War  Poetry  (Vols.  by  Percy  MacKaye,  John  Masefield), 
by  Richard  Burton,  The  Bellman,  January  2. 

Wearers  of  the  Laurel,  History  of  the  Poets  Laureate  of 
England,  by  Edwin  F.  Edgett,  Boston  Transcript, 
May  29. 

Welti,  the  Swiss  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  by  Dr.  I.  Goldberg, 
Boston  Transcript,  November  25,  1914. 

Western  Nature  Poet,  A  (Madison  Cawein),  The  Nation, 
December  17,  1914. 

What  and  Why  is  Poetry?  The  Los  Angeles  Graphic,  Feb 
ruary  20. 

What  is  Poetry?  by  F.  W.  Ruckstuhl,  IV.  Y.  Times  Review 
of  Book. 

What  is  Poetry?  Mr.  Ruckstuhl  Reviews  Definitions,  N.  F. 
Times  Review  o>f  Books,  March  7. 

What  is  Poetry?  A  Definition,  by  Thomas  Quinn  Beesley 
and  George  Meason  Whicher,  N.  T.  Times  Book  Re 
view,  February  21. 

What  is  Poetry?  A  Definition,  by  Conrad  Aiken  and  Cale 
Young  Rice,  N.  Y.  Times  Review  of  Books,  February  7. 

What  is  Poetry?  by  Edgar  Lee  Masters,  Poetry:  A  Maga 
zine  of  Verse,  September. 

What    South    Americans    Read,    A    Panorama    of    Poets, 

283 


Critics,  and  Culture,  by  Isaac  Goldberg,  The  Bookman, 

June. 
When  Does  a  Ballad  Become  a  Ballade?   (The  Ballade,  by 

Helen  Louise  Cohen),  by  Richard  Le  Gallienne,  N.  Y. 

Times  Review  of  Books,  August  15. 
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Forum,  July,  August  and  September. 
Whitman    in    Whitman's    Land,    by    Herman    Scheffater, 

North    American   Review,    February. 
Why   Whitman   Disliked    Kipling,   by   Maily   Millard,    The 

Bookman,  November,  1914. 
Words  for  the  Hour  (Two  Poems  on  Belgium  and  Italy, 

by  Julia  Ward  Howe),  by  Maud  Howe  Elliott,  Boston 

Transcript,  January  30. 
Workmanship  of  "Macbeth,"  The,  Parts   I.,   II.,   III.,  by 

Sir    Arthur    Quiller-Couch,    North    American    Review, 

October,  November,  December,  1914. 
Worst  Edition  of  Shakespeare,  by  Charles  S.  Brooks,  The 

Tale  Review,  January. 
Warton,    The    Poetry    of    Thomas,    by    Clarissa    Rinaker, 

Sewanee  Review,  June. 

"You  and  I"  (vol.  by  Harriet  Monroe),  by  Edgar  Lee 
Masters,  Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  January. 

Young  of  the  "  Night  Thoughts  "  (Life  and  Letters  of),  by 
Homer  E.  Woodbridge,  The  Dial,  February  1. 


284 


VOLUMES  OF  POEMS  PUBLISHED 
DURING  1915 

A.  E.     (George  W.  Russell.)     Collected  Poems.    The  Mac- 

millan  Co. 
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Co.,  Boston. 

Bacon,  Leonard.  The  Song  of  Roland.  Yale  University 
Press. 

Bangs,  John  Kendrick.  A  Quest  for  Song.  Little  Brown 
&  Co. 

Banning,  Kendall.  By  Paths  in  Arcady:  A  Book  of  Love 
Songs.  Brothers  of  the  Book,  Chicago. 

Barrow,  George.  Welsh  Poems  and  Ballads.  With  an 
Introduction  by  Ernest  Rhys.  G.  P.  Putnams'  Sons. 

Bell,  Harold.  Poems  and  Sonnets.  Elkin  Mathews,  Lon 
don,  England.  (For  sale  at  the  Little  Book  Shop 
Around  the  Corner,  2  East  29th  Street,  N.  Y.  City.) 

Bronte,  Anne,  Emily  and  Charlotte.  Poems.  Edited  by 
A.  C.  Benson.  G.  P.  Putnams'  Sons. 

Binyon,  Laurence.  The  Winnowing  Fan:  Poems  on  the 
Great  War.  Houghton  Mifflin  Co. 

Binns,  Henry  W.  The  Free  Spirit:  Realization  of  Middle 
Age,  with  a  Note  on  Personal  Expression.  B.  W. 
Huebsch. 

Bjornson,  Bjornstjerne.  Poems  and  Songs.  Translated 
from  the  Norwegian  in  the  Original  Meters,  by  Arthur 
Hebbell  Palmer.  The  American  Scandinavian  Foun 
dation.  New  York. 

Botrel,  Theodore.  Songs  of  Brittany.  Translated  by 
Emily  Dickerman.  Richard  G.  Badger. 

Boyd,  Jackson.  The  Unveiling,  A  Poetic  Drama  in  Five 
Acts.  G.  P.  Putnams'  Sons. 

Brackett,  Charles  William.  Jocelyn:  A  Play  and  Thirty 
Verses.  Richard  G.  Badger. 

Braithwaite,  William  Stanley.  American  Poets  on  Brown 
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Braley,  Berton.  Songs  of  the  Workaday  World.  George 
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Brooks,  Fred  Emerson.    Cream  Toasts.    Forbes  &  Co. 

Browning,  Robert  and  Elizabeth.  New  Poems.  The  Mac- 
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285 


Burnet,    Dana.     Poems.     Harper    and    Brothers.    $1.20. 
Bynner,  Witter.    Iphigenia  in  Tauris.     Mitchell  Kennerley. 
Bynner,  Witter.     The  New   World.    Mitchell  Kennerley. 

Cammaerts,  Emile.  Belgian  Poems:  Chants  and  Patriot- 
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Cammaerts.  With  a  Portrait  by  Vernon  Hill.  John 
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Cammell,  Charles  Richard.  Casus  Belli,  A  Satire  with 
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Cams,  PauL  K'Ung  Fu  Tze:  A  Dramatic  Poem.  The 
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Carus,  Paul.  Truth  and  Other  Poems.  The  Open  Court 
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Carpenter,  Fred  Warner.  Verses  from  Many  Seas.  Paul 
Elder. 

Carrington,  FitzRoy.  The  Quiet  Hour.  Houghton  Mifflin 
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Chesterton,  Gilbert  K.     The   Wild  Knight.    E.  P.  Dutton. 

Chesterton,  Gilbert  K.     Poems.    John  Lane  Co. 

Choate,  Isaac  Bassett.  The  Praise  of  Song.  Chappie 
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Clark,  Jr.,  Charles  Badger.  Sun  and  Saddle  Leather. 
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Cleveland,  George  A.  Maine:  In  Verse  and  Story.  Rich 
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Cornford,  Frances.  Spring  Morning.  Poetry  Bookshop, 
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286 


Davis,  Thomas.  Selections  from  His  Prose  and  Poetry. 
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Draper,  John  W.  Exotics.  Guido  Bruno,  Washington 
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Erskine,  John.  Contemporary  War  Poems.  (International 
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Faber,  Geoffrey  C.    Interflow.    Houghton  Mifflin  Co. 
Ficke,  Arthur  Davison.     The  Man  on  the  Hilltop  and  Other 

Poems.    Mitchell  Kennerley. 
Fiske,  Isabelle  Howe.    Sonnets  and  Lyrics.    Published  by 

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Frost,  Robert.    A  Boy's  Will.     Henry  Holt  &  Co. 

Gayley,  Charles  Mills.  Representative  English  Comedies, 
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Gibbs,  Jessie  Wiseman.  Peace  Sonnets.  Published  by  the 
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287 


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Masques  of  East  and  West.     Edited  by  Wallace  Rice, 

with    a    Foreword    by    Percy   MacKaye.    Gomme    and 

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Harper,  H.  H.  Random  Verses.  Privately  Printed,  Bos 
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Hearn,  Lafcadio.    Japanese  Lyrics.     Houghton  Mifflin  Co. 

Helton,  Roy.     Youth's  Pilgrimage.     Poet  Lore  Co. 

Holley,  Horace.  Creation:  Post-Impressionist  Poems. 
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Holliday,  Wilfrid  J.  Pro  Patria:  A  Book  of  Patriotic 
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Hooker,  Brian.    Poems.    Yale  University  Press. 

Imagist  Poets,  Some.    An  Anthology.    Houghton  Mifflin  Co. 

Johnson,  Fenton.  Visions  of  the  Dusk.  Published  by  the 
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Johnson,  Henry.  The  Divine  Comedy  of  Dante.  Yale  Uni 
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Johnson,  William  Samuel.  Prayer  for  Peace  and  Other 
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Jones,  Thomas  S.,  Jr.  The  Rose  Jar  (Lyra  Americana). 
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288 


Keats,  John.  Poems,  Arranged  in  Chronological  Order, 
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Lanier,  Clifford  Anderson.     Sonnets  to  Sidney  Lanier  and 

Other  Lyrics.     With  Introduction  by  Edward  Howard 

Griggs.     B.  W.  Huebsch. 
Lathbury,    Mary    Artemisia,     Poems.    Nunc    Licet    Press, 

Minneapolis,   Minn. 
Leonard,  R.  M.    Poems  on  the  Arts    (Oxford  Garlands). 

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Verhaeren,  £mile.  Poems  of.  Selected  and  Rendered  in 
English  by  Alma  StretteL  John  Lane  Co. 

Walsh,  Thomas.     The  Pilgrim  Kings:  Greco  and  Goya  and 

Other  Poems  of  Spain.    The  Macmillan  Co. 
Watts,  Harvey  M.     The  Faith  of  Princes:  With  a  Sheaf  of 

Sonnets.     The  John  C.  Winston  Co. 
Wickham,  Anna,     The  Contemplative  Quarry.     Poetry  Book 

Shop.    London.     For    sale    at    the    Little    Book    Shop 

Around  the  Corner,  2  East  29th  Street,  New  York. 
Widdemer,    Margaret.     The    Factories    and    Other    Lyrics. 

The  John  C.  Winston  Co. 

Wilson,  Alice.     The  Lutanist.     Richard  G.  Badger. 
Wells,  Percival  W.     Lilies  6>f  the  Valley.     Illustrations  by 

P.  and  D.  Wells.    Bartlett  Publishing  Co.    Wantagh, 

New  York. 
Wood,    Charles    Erskine   Scott.     The   Poet   in    the   Desert. 

F.  W.  Baltes  &  Co.     Portland,  Ore. 
Wightman,  Richard.    Ashes  and  Sparks.    The  Century  Co. 


292 


INDEX 


ANDERSON,  MARGARET  STEELE     Madison  Cawein    .     .      .178 
ARENSBERG,     WALTER    CON 
RAD     Voyage  A   L'Infini     .     .  172 


BEACH,   JOSEPH    WARREN 
BEARD,  THERESA  VIRGINIA 
BROWN,    ABBIE    FARWELL 
BURNET,  DANA     .      .      . 
BUHNET,  DANA     . 
BURR,  AMELIA  JOSEPHINE 
BURR,  AMELIA  JOSEPHINE 
BURTON,  RICHARD 
BYNNEH,   WITTER       .      . 


COATES,  FLORENCE  EARLE 
CONKLING,  GRACE  HAZARD 
CREWE,  HELEN  COALE 


Cave  Talk 30 

Heritage 11 

The  Fairy  Fort     ...     42 

Oayheart 79 

Harvest        152 

A  Spring  Symphony  .     .     14 
Ulysses  In  Ithaca       .     .     25 

Fate 159 

Passages  from  "  The  New 
World"    ,.  63 


Time 174 

The  Barberry  Bush    .      .     45 
Sing,   Ye   Trenches     .     .  129 


D,    H Sea  Iris 53 

DAHGAN,  OLIVE  TILFORD       .  Beyond  the  War   .     .      .  101 

DE    FORD,   MIRIAM   ALLEN    .  The  Musicmaker's  Child  .  8 

DOLE,  NATHAN  HASKELL     .  The  Mirage       ....  57 


FISHER,  MAHLON  LEONARD 
FISHER,  MAHLON  LEONARD 
FLETCHER,  JOHN  GOULD 
FROST,   ROBERT 
FROST,   ROBERT 
FROST,   ROBERT 


July 60 

,     //  One  Should  Come  .     .   171 
Green  Symphony    ...     48 

Birches 54 

The  Road  Not  Taken      .     61 
The  Death  of  the  Hired 
Man 163 

293 


GARESCHE,  S.  J.,  EDWARD  F. 
GILTINAN,  CAROLINE 
GILTINAN,  CAROLINE 
GLAENZER,  RICHARD  BUTLER 
GLAENZER,  RICHARD  BUTLER 
GRIFFITH,  WILLIAM   . 
GRIFFITH,  WILLIAM   .     .     . 
GRIFFITH,  WILLIAM  . 
GUITERMAN,  ARTHUR      .     . 


Sun-browned  with  Toil 
Over  Night,  A  Rose  . 
The  Courtyard  Pigeon 
To  Edgar  Lee  Masters 
Sure.    It'*    Fun 
Serenade       .... 
Interlude      .... 
Spring  Song 
Hills 


59 
151 

45 

96 
118 

52 
180 
181 

56 


HAGEDORN,  HERMANN    . 
HARDING,  RUTH  GUTHRIE 
HARDING,  RUTH  GUTHRIE 
HOOKER,  BRIAN    . 


The  Pyres 127 

Song 26 

From  a  Car-Window  .      .     29 
The  Maker  of  Images     .     69 


JOHNSON,     BURGES    . 
JOHNSON,  JAMES  WELDON   . 
JOHNSON,     ROBERT    UNDER 
WOOD        

JOHNSON,  WILLIAM  SAMUEL 


The   Service       ....  157 

The  White   Witch       .     .  160 

The  Haunting  Face   .      .  4 

Prayer  For  Peace      .     .  140 


KILMER,  JOYCE 


The  White  Ships  and  the 
Red  .  134 


LEE,  AGNES     .... 
LE  GALLIENNE,  RICHARD 

LINDSAT,  VACHEL      .     . 
Low,  BENJAMIN  R.  C.  . 

LOWELL,  AMY 
LOWELL,  AMY 
LOWELL,  AMY  .  .  . 


A  Statue  in  a  Garden  .  158 
Ballad  of  Amaryllis  in 

the  Shade  ....  18 
The  Chinese  Nightingale  32 
For  the  Dedication  of  a 

Toy  Theatre  ....  44 

Patterns 22 

The  Bombardment  .  .  124 
The  Fruit  Shop  ...  145 


The  Return  of  August 
Fire   Castles 


MACKAYE,  PERCY       .     . 
MACKAYE,   ARVIA 
MANN,      DOROTHEA      LAW 
RENCE       To   Imagination 

MARQUIS,  DON      ....     The  Paradox    . 
294 


137 
57 

9 
150 


MASTERS,  EDGAR  LEE       .     .     Silence 175 

MASTERS,  EDGAR  LEE       .     .  Washington  McNeeley     .  98 

MASTERS,  EDGAR  LEE       .     .  Hannah  Armstrong    .     .  100 

MITCHELL,  RUTH  COMFORT  .  The  Vinegar  Man       ,     .  99 

MITCHELL,  RUTH  COMFORT  .  The  Night  Court  .     .     .  153 

MONROE,   HARRIET     .     .     .  On  the  Porch   .     .     .     .113 

MORLEY,   CHRISTOPHER    .     .  Hymn  to  the  Dairymaids 

of  Beacon  Street     .     .  62 

NORRIS,  MARY  RACHEL  .     .     Pax  Beata 156 

O'BRIEN,  EDWARD  J.       .      .  The  Last  Piper     .     .     .  173 

O'BRIEN,  EDWARD  J.       .      .     Song 43 

OPPENHEIM,  JAMES   .     .     .     1915 130 

PATTON,  MARGARET  FRENCH  Needle  Travel  ....  41 

PEABODY,  JOSEPHINE  PRES 
TON  Cradle  Song  ....  1 

PEABODY,  JOSEPHINE  PRES 
TON  Men  Have  Wings  at  Last  115 

PEABODY,  JOSEPHINE  PRES 
TON  Harvest  Moon,  1914  .  .  119 

RICE,  GRANTLAND      .     .     .  The   Vanished  Country    .  162 

ROBINSON,  CORINNE  ROOSE 
VELT  We  Who  Have  Loved  .  30 

ROBINSON,  EDWIN  ARLING 
TON  Flammonde  ....  76 

ROBINSON,  EDWIN  ARLING 
TON  Old  King  Cole  ...  93 

ROBINSON,  EDWIN  ARLING 
TON  Cassandra 181 

SHEPAHD,  ODELL    ....  Vistas      .      .      ...     .      .58 

SHEPAHD,  ODELL   ....  The  Adventurer     ...  75 

SMITH,    MARION    COUTHOUY  Sainte  Jeanne  of  France 

—1915 182 

STAFFORD,  WENDELL  PHIL 
LIPS  Invocation 1 

295 


STAFFORD,    WENDELL    PHIL 
LIPS     Lincoln 95 

STEVENS,  WALLACE    .     .     .     Peter      Quince      at      the 

Clavier 15 

BUTTON,  E. The  Wind  in  the  Corn  .  121 


TEASDALE,  SABA  .  >  .  . 
TEASDALE,  SARA  .  .  .  ;. 
TEASDALE,  SARA  .  > 

TEASDALE,  SARA  .... 
TIETJENS,  EUNICE  .  .  . 

TORRENCE,  RlDQELT  .  .  . 
TORRENCE,  RlDGELY  . 

TOWNE,  CHARLES  HANSON  . 
TURNER,  NANCY  BIRD  . 

UNDERWOOD,  JOHN  CURTIS  . 
UNTERMEYER,  Louis  .  .  . 

UNTEHMEYER,  Louis  .  .  . 
UNTERMEYER,  Louis  .  .  . 

WALSH,  THOMAS  .... 
WHARTON,   EDITH 
WHICHER,  GEORGE  MEASON  . 
WIDDEMER,  MARGARET     . 
WIDDEMER,  MARGARET 
WOOD,  CLEMENT  .... 
WOODBERRY,      GEORGE      ED 
WARD  •. 

WRIGHT,  CUTHBERT   .      .     . 


Testament    .     .  ,  .     .     .  157 

Joy     . 17 

The  Cloud 57 

The  Answer  .  .  .  .159 
The  Bacchante  to  Her 

Babe 5 

A  Vision  of  Spring  .  .  106 
The  Bird  and  the  Tree  .  179 
To  My  Country  .  .  .183 
Sister  Mary  Veronica  .  74 

La  Gitana 20 

To     a     Gentleman     Re 
former       92 

The  Laughters  .  .  .109 
The  Swimmers  ....  169 

Sunset  Balconies  ...  19 
Battle  Sleep  ....  123 
The  Home  of  Horace  .  72 
A  Cyprian  Woman  .  .  29 
God  and  the  Strong  Ones  111 
Spring 40 

Sonnets 142 

The  New  Platonist  27 


296 


DATE  DUE 


PltlMTCDINU  •  A. 


PS310  M3B7 
Braithwaite, 

Beaumont , 
Anthology  of 
for  1915  : 


William  ! 
878-  , 
magaz  ine 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIB 

AA    001  1470C 


